


To Find the Sun

by the_little_bay_that_could



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Child Abuse, Coruscant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Force Bond (Star Wars), Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Jedi, Jedi Temple, M/M, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Padawan, Padawan Obi-Wan, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, The Force, anakin is still a slave, and qui-gon doesn't die, except obi-wan is only a few years older than anakin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6484777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_little_bay_that_could/pseuds/the_little_bay_that_could
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Star Wars AU. Set around the timeline of TPM, it begins with a 9 year old Anakin and a 12 year old Obi-Wan. Trapped in the clutch of the illegal slave trade, Anakin is sold as a sex slave on Coruscant. Meanwhile, a young Obi-Wan trains as a Padawan under the apprenticeship of Qui-Gon Jinn.</p><p>Be it the will of the Force or not, the two boys cross paths to form what they believe to be an unbreakable bond. In time, the Jedi take notice of Anakin and deliberate on what will be of the future of the boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

 Coruscant was strange. Oh so, _so_ horrifyingly strange. It was nothing like Tatooine. Everything was cement and steel, and too tall buildings loomed overhead, while too deep of pits revealed an underworld seemingly completely separate from the apparent vibrancy of city-life above. And it was loud, so overwhelmingly loud. The ceaseless conversation, the yelling, the laughter, the music, the beeping of droids, the thrumming of speeders.

  
_And the thoughts._ Anakin believed he could hear every sentient’s thoughts on this kriffing planet. Every since he was a little boy on Tatooine, it was something he could do— overhear peoples thoughts. He couldn’t hear everyone’s, and he didn’t hear them all the time, but it was just so loud here. It was nothing like Tatooine. Tatooine was much quieter. This was just _too loud_ , and he didn’t know what to do about it, or how to react, and the only viable option seemed to be to panic.

  
It was lonely here too. Sure, Anakin didn’t think it’d be possible to creep away from the leering eyes of a single sentient for even a moment on this planet, but it was still irrepressibly lonely. He missed his mom, oh Force, he missed her so, _so, so much_. He missed her so much it hurt— it hurt more than any whipping, any beating.

  
Under different circumstances, Coruscant would probably be cool. If he were here with his mom, Anakin would be head over heels excited. Ecstatic! If he were free, he’d explore every depth, every crevice, every skyscraper, and every room of this planet. He probably wouldn’t even sleep, he’d just explore, and explore, and _explore!_ He’d explore until his body couldn’t take it any longer, and he’d crash asleep, but when he woke up, he think he’d might just explore some more.

  
But of course, those weren’t the circumstances. Anakin was alone, and he was a slave. _Bought, traded, sold_ , just like any commodity. Watto had lost him in a bet, and Anakin had been torn away from his mother and thrust into the clutch of the illegal slave trade that even operated within the Republic. Coruscant and the Republic weren’t anything like Tatooine or any of the other _savage_ Outer Rim planets, so the slave trade operated in utter secrecy. Of course, people knew it existed, and the traders, if found, were heavily persecuted, but the illegal trade was ran by violent, powerful crime syndicates who were virtually impossible to quell and pin down for a crime.

  
That’s how Anakin ended up chained, stowed away as cargo in the back of a pirate ship, and ultimately as the possession of a particularly slimy Trandoshan by the name of Dask.

  
Dask lived alone, in a decrepit, musty apartment, deep in the slums of the Coruscant underworld. Dask told him that his skills as a mechanic would certainly be useful, but that wouldn’t be his main point of value here. He told Anakin that Coruscant already had enough mechanics and engineers, so he would serve a very different purpose here. The people of Coruscant had other needs that must be attended to, and Anakin was indeed a very handsome little choice to fulfill those needs.

  
From the moment he laid eyes on him, Anakin could tell Dask was going to be a much, _much,_ worse Master than Watto, and finally arriving on Coruscant, where Dask could completely entangle the boy in his claws, only solidified that fear. Anakin wanted to run, and run, and _run_ , but he knew he couldn’t. His slave chip made sure of that. Such autonomy wasn’t a luxury Anakin had access to anyways; he was just a commodity, and commodities didn’t want, they didn’t make choices of their own. This was a lesson Watto had tirelessly tried to teach him, and was a lesson Anakin had always refused to learn. He wasn’t just a slave, he was a person— he was sure of it! But now, enslaved on such a _free_ planet, Anakin’s conviction slowly began to wither. He was so terrified and so alone. Maybe he was just a slave after all.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan sat loosely on the couch of his and his Master’s shared apartment, utterly immersed in a holonovel. This one was a transfixing horror novel about the ghost of a slave boy who lurked in the shadows, haunted the woods of some distant planet. The boy, warped by his own experiences, vowed revenge, and cast some ghastly death on all those who dare enter his realm. Sure, the themes of darkness and revenge were nothing of the Jedi way, but it was simply a novel, and the young Jedi couldn’t help but find it absolutely enticing. So much so, that he barely noticed when his Master entered the apartment.

  
“Ever absorbed in your books, aren’t you, young one?” The Jedi Master cracked a grin. Obi-Wan’s eyes shot up from his holonovel, a bashful smile lightly etched on his youthful face.

“Master— Hello!” he greeted, ever so slightly taken aback as to how his Master had caught him so off guard. He was always an incredibly attentive and aware Padawan, almost painfully so.

  
“I believe you have a sparring session to ready yourself for, no?”

  
_Oh Force!_ — he’d nearly forgotten.

  
Qui-Gon looked at him expectantly; “The holonovel,” Obi-Wan responded to the unspoken question, shrugging amiably, as if such an excuse were reason enough.

  
“You read much more than any Padawan I have ever known, you know that? I’d be willing to bet the same is true with many Masters, as well.” And it was the truth— whenever Obi-Wan wasn’t training, working on his studies, or meditating, it seemed as if he was always engrossed in a new holobook. Fiction and non-fiction, age-old history books, and science books Qui-Gon himself may even be compelled to find rather drab. But the young one had a seemingly insatiable desire to learn, and he absorbed all new information like a sponge. “And as much as I dislike to tear you away from your readings, we must go now if you do not wish to be late.” Oh, and Qui-Gon swore on the Force, his Padawan had never been late, to anything.

  
With that, Obi-Wan sprung up onto two booted feet, excited to spar and further improve his dueling technique. He attached the hilt of his newly-constructed lightsaber to his belt, and started out of his apartment to one of the many training rooms of the expansive Jedi temple. His Master followed out a step behind him, unable to hide his proud grin at the brilliant beam of light that was his Padawan’s presence in the Force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So tbh I really don't know where I'm going with this story?? I don't know how short or long it will be or anything. I think I proof read it fairly well, but there may be errors. And I was clueless for what to do as a title, please tell me if you any of you have good ideas lol.  
> As you can probably tell there's a lot I don't know about for this fic  
> Please tell me what you think! Comments, critiques.. all are much appreciated!


	2. A Disturbance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mention of rape- basically dealing with the reaction to it, and it's traumatic effect.

 There was a disturbance in the Force. Any trained Force-sensitive could sense it. Yet no Jedi could pinpoint quite what it was.

“Troubling, this is,” Yoda spoke to the Council, a small sigh escaping his green lips. “Discover the source of this disturbance, we must.”

This anomaly didn’t stem from the Dark Side, _that much_ at least seemed clear. However, it was just entirely too elusive, leaving even the wisest of Jedi Masters bewildered.

“We must remain vigilant,” Master Plo Koon spoke. “While this disturbance doesn’t appear to be of the Dark Side, we are unsure of just what we are dealing with.”

“What we are dealing with, or _who_ we are dealing with,” Master Windu supplemented. 

“You think this disturbance may be centered around a person?” Ki-Adi Mundi inquired, thin lines of skepticism sketched onto his face.

Yoda considered this for a moment. “Very possible, this may be.”

 

* * *

 

His Master had urged him to meditate on it. The anomaly, the disturbance. Following an hour long meditation session, Obi-Wan contemplated the disturbance, and to put it simply— he was at a loss. He had done as his Master instructed and had fully opened himself up to the Force. His conscious self had joined with the Force, permeating it completely until one functioning unit resulted; a unit that worked towards a similar goal. A goal of higher understanding.

Still, he was puzzled. He had _felt_ the disturbance, but what it was perplexed him completely. He sought the understanding his Master seemingly held, but felt as if such apprehension were beyond him and his abilities. 

Qui-Gon sensed this very uncertainty. Oh, his young apprentice, always so full of self-doubt. His Padawan’s abilities and insight, however, surpassed that of most Padawans as young as he. 

“I too am mystified by this disturbance, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon casually reminded his apprentice. 

“Yes Master,” the words came out slowly, followed by a heavy sigh. Obi-Wan knew he was being unreasonably hard on himself. But then again, he always was. “I just feel as if, whatever this is, it is incredibly important.”

“Certainly,” he agreed, “Perhaps the Force is trying to tell us something. Keep your senses open and listen. It will reveal itself in time.”

“How do I know what to listen to?”

“You will know, my Padawan. The Force will guide you, always.” To this, Obi-Wan only nodded. On his face, a contemplative look echoed a thousand questions of a man deep in thought. Qui-Gon often found it difficult to believe, that Obi-Wan wasn’t just that— a man, pondering all the unsolved problems and concepts of the universe — for instead, he was just a boy, pondering all the unsolved problems and concepts of the universe.

“Would you care for some tea?” Obi-Wan finally spoke, a minute or so later. 

“Please.” 

Together, the Master and apprentice consumed copious amounts of tea. It was truly impressive, how much tea they drank. And aside from reading, it was likely the only indulgence Obi-Wan allowed himself. 

After fiddling around in the kitchen, Obi-Wan set two cups of herbal green tea on a plain-looking gray table.

“You know, the Council has assigned a mission for us,” Qui-Gon spoke as he took a seat opposite of Obi-Wan.

“Really?” the stormy blue eyes lit up, his voice uncharacteristically excited. He had yet to go on a mission, but it was something he had dreamed of ever since he was a youngling first going through the courses of basic temple training. And oh, how he so desired to go off world! To explore new planets and cultures, admire the vastly different environments and ecosystems. 

“Not off-world. Not yet, anyways,” he smirked, discerning the boy’s train of thought. “In two days time, we’ll be venturing off to the Coruscant underworld,” he paused, “But I guess you can call that a world of it’s own, no?” Obi-Wan smiled at that. “We have reason to believe a terrorist cell, within the Republic, and possibly Coruscant itself, is plotting an assassination attempt on some high ranking politician. Who, this politician is, we do not know. And our intel on said terrorist cell is just as sparse,” Qui-Gon grimaced at the lack of meaningful information the Jedi and local law enforcement actually possessed on this threat. “That is where we come in. We are to engage _no one,_ Padawan, I meant it. We will simply observe, overhear, and do our best to gain any leads. Being the astute young Padawan you are, the Council believed this to be a fitting first mission for you. And I, for once, agree with them.”

Though he was going no where off-world, Obi-Wan’s eagerness didn’t diminish in the slightest. It was still a mission! He had only recently earned the title of Padawan, and now he was finally getting to act as one. He was being given the honor to work in an actually significant capacity, one where he could make a difference and save lives. One where he could be a Jedi. “No engagement? I assume this means no aggressive negotiations will be taking place?” Obi-Wan couldn’t help but make the remark, a single eyebrow raising affably, a smirk spread across his rosy lips. He knew his Master’s own propensity towards “aggressive negotiations” (this was Qui-Gon’s preferred term), so he knew, naturally, he would eventually be thrust into situations that required such a form of negotiating.

“If everything goes according to plan, then aggressive negotiations will not be needed,” Qui-Gon smiled at his Padawan’s wisecrack. He couldn’t help but feel Obi-Wan would too be inclined to the same negotiation tactics. The young one was already a notably shrewd negotiator, so it only made sense that a more aggressive style would, in time, become apart of his skill set. 

 

* * *

 

A nameless weequay emerged from the awful, moldy room that Anakin sat in. He balled his small body up into the farthest, darkest corner of the room. As if _maybe_ he would be protected there; _maybe_ no one would see him there. Anakin couldn’t even think straight— he was far too terrified to form a coherent thought. Chocked sobs racked his battered body, fighting to find their way out of his throat, while bruised knees were held tightly to his chest.

_Mom, mom, mom, please help me. Mom!_

He rocked back and forth, too many tears staining his vision.

_Please get me out of here. Mom— I need you._

He didn’t think he had ever felt more helpless and petrified than he did now. Oh, he felt so helpless. Completely and utterly helpless. And hopeless. He wanted to run, but he knew he couldn’t. His Master would catch him. Besides, his body was too paralyzed by fear to even listen to his own thoughts and commands. He could only rock back and forth, incessantly.

And everything hurt. Oh, so, _so,_ badly. His body hurt, his head hurt, his very being _hurt._

The door swung violently open. If it were somehow possible, Anakin retreated further into the shadowed corner, his body balled up tighter. 

_P-p-please, no more._

It was the slimy, vile trandoshan, Dask. “Get up, boy,” he said hurriedly, unsympathetically. He impatiently leaned against the doorway, waiting for Anakin to rise. “I said get up!” he shouted now, making Anakin’s under-fed body shake even more.

Anakin wanted to get up, just to avoid the wrath of Dask, but he physically _couldn’t._ Some invisible weight was pressing him down; the world was far, _far_ too heavy on his shoulders for him to move. The very galaxy was working against the boy, as it seemed it always had. The stars, the moons, the planets, and the asteroids— they all wanted Anakin to hurt and burn.

The trandoshan now marched towards the boy, heavy footsteps making the room shake. Anakin thought the roof was falling in on him. “Up!” a harsh, dreadful voice rung into his ears, as a think, scaly hand wrapped around his bicep. He was easily yanked up, and then dragged back to Dask’s apartment. Anakin’s steps were heavy and uneasy, the walk back more difficult and oppressive than any sandstorm he ever had to fare. 

A sandstorm would be welcome right now. Anything but _this,_ anything but _Dask._

 

* * *

 

When he awoke the next morning, an ache pervaded his body. Everything seemed to hurt just as much as yesterday, if not more. Anakin curled in on himself, wrapping a dirty, uncomfortable off-white blanket around himself. Stale bread, some unknown fruit, and a cup of water was placed on the floor parallel the old mattress (that was probably crawling with bugs) Anakin slept on.

Despite the ever-present dull hunger pains— a stomach protesting for food— Anakin couldn’t bring himself to eat. He simply wasn’t hungry. He was just so very tired, and he wasn’t going to get out of bed until Dask forced him to. He hoped he could stay in bed all day, all week. More than anything, he just wanted to be ignored, forgotten. He wanted to escape the burn of lewd eyes, the touch of sweaty palms _the…_

Force, he was so tired. Not the tired where he could just sleep it off and be fine when he woke, but _tired._ Unbearably so. It was as if every drop of spirit and life within him had been brutally drained from his body. 

He was sad too. But that was really part of the tired, the two words interchangeable. And he was angry. Maybe that anger was the only spark of life he had left. Right now, he was much too tired to be angry, but nevertheless, the anger had been steadily growing over the years. Someday, it would become too much. It would boil to the top, and then seep over the edges. Someday, Dask would die, and they would _all pay._ Someday, Anakin would be his own person, and he would be powerful, and he would have revenge.

Someday. But that day was not today. Or tomorrow. Or even a year from now. Today, Anakin couldn’t even begin to think about that day. The lustful idea of power and revenge was hidden deep inside him, and today, he was far too exhausted and sad for it to come to the fore. 

No, today, the only thoughts he had were for his lost mother and his own misery. And the only question he asked was, _why?_

_Why? Why me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind comments you left! They made me so happy :)
> 
> So our lil Anakin is the disturbance in the Force. I feel awful for making him suffer so much. He's beyond traumatized. Hopefully things are gonna look up for him (eventually? we'll see)?? 
> 
> Again, comments and critiques are much appreciated.


	3. A Dirty Cantina

 Obi-Wan had to restrain himself. Too many waves of childish glee washed about in him, tickling him in excitement and anticipation.

_Be mindful of your emotions,_ he chastised himself, allowing his excitement to seep out into the Force. But only seep out. He didn’t think he could let go of all of it, no matter how hard he tried. 

The Council had supplied Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan with a bit more intel than they originally had access to, but the pair was still fairly in the dark on the mission. There was some terrorist group, trying to assassinate some politician— _right_ , Obi-Wan had known that. This group, along with much of the galaxy’s scum, was rumored to convene at a cantina that went by the name _Dealer’s Den,_ situated in the Concourse Lounges section of the Old Galactic Market. And the terrorist group, Obi-Wan learned, was called _Red Shadow._ The name, he supposed, was meant to be intimidating, but he found it somewhat cliché. Nevertheless, it was symbolic for their actions and ideology. They were a relatively young terrorist cell, believed to be involved in the drug trade and human-trafficking, but they also had a certain fondness for wreaking havoc on Republic politicians who supported policies that opposed their own fanatical ideology and illicit actions.

The mission, Obi-Wan cautiously admitted to himself, was somewhat frightening. Two hours of meditation with his master had helped relieve some of his tension, but he was uneasy, nerves still danced about in his stomach. It was a twitching sense of anxiety, but the Force did not appear to be warning him of any grave danger, so Obi-Wan classified it as a case of first-mission jitters. 

“Trust in your abilities, young one,” Qui-Gon spoke as they approached a relatively banged up green and silver speeder. The speeder resembled nothing of any usual Jedi mode of transportation; it was far too old and shoddy, but it allowed them to blend into the grimy atmosphere of the underworld. 

The master-apprentice duo draped dull colored ponchos over their typical Jedi robes and lightsabers, and Obi-Wan was forced to take out his padawan braid for the purpose of the mission. Having just become a padawan, Obi-Wan was slightly irked that he _already_ had to take out his prized braid, but fortunately the braid was still short enough that it didn’t awkwardly stick out from the rest of his hair when unbraided. 

All in all, he was well-enough prepared for the Coruscant underworld. For once, his mere presence did not scream “Jedi youngling! Here to save the galaxy!”, and he was ready to artfully hide in the shadows of Coruscant’s tougher half. He’d even been informed by his Master that it wasn’t overly strange for the planet’s younger population to hang around the cantinas and other crime hot-stops. So all in all, first-mission jitters aside, he was quite ready indeed. 

The drive to the Concourse Lounges was relatively quick and quiet. Obi-Wan focused on reaching out to the Force, releasing his nervous energy, clearing his mind. The calming bustle of the city-planet brought a gentle stillness to the disquiet of his mind. The presence of trillions of lifeforms was a soft comfort to him, a reassurance. In a planet made of steel and concrete, the Living Force still managed to scream and swirl, laugh and dance. 

As they arrived at the lower levels, the Force was rigid and somewhat grim. Stepping off the speeder, Obi-Wan took careful notice of his surroundings. Colorful graffiti was sprayed on the building walls— some of it appeared to be completely random and sprawling, while other markings represented gangs or conveyed political messages. Trash littered the ground and a homeless Rodian in tattered clothing scoured a trashcan for food. Two protocol droids conversed by a food stand and a Zabrak was yelling at a Quarren about something that sounded like gambling debts. 

“I sense a disturbance in the Force. Be wary, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon remarked, cooly strolling towards Dealer’s Den.

“I sense it too, Master. Do you think it may be what we felt last week?”

“It very well may be,” he affirmed. 

The disturbance really was quite _strange,_ and just what it was remained to elude him. But now, it felt so much closer. As if it were almost palpable. The source of the disturbance was nearby, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but feel that there would be more to this mission than merely unraveling a terrorist plot. 

 

* * *

 

The cantina was far too stuffy and loud. There was a dank smell to the place which was most likely the result of too many sweaty bodies rubbing together; and as much as he hated the place, Anakin had to admit it was interesting. Dask was in the back room with a prostitute, so Anakin was more or less left to his own company and thoughts. He enjoyed studying the cantina, the people of different species. Men were lusting over the female Twi’lek strippers, hooting and hollering. A motley group of men and women alike were gambling at one end of the room, and at the bar a brown-haired human woman refused the advances of a too-pale human male.

Dask had initially come here to meet with his “business associates,” (that’s what Dask had called them at least, but Anakin preferred to view them as living, breathing garbage) and Anakin’s curiosity had admittedly gotten the better of him, and he had inquired about the meeting at hand, but the Trandoshan had promptly told him “it’s none of your fuckin’ business.” More or less, he ignored the subliminal threat. As Dask and his associates conversed, Anakin sat a safe distance away (well, in the lone chair where his master had told him to “sit there. Don’t move, and keep your goddamn mouth shut.”) and carefully focused his attention on what they were saying.

He only got snippets, really. The cantina was loud and he was somewhat distracted by the incessant noise and action of the place. Nevertheless, he was able to hear the basics. Dask was a member of what seemed to be a terrorist group of sorts. They called themselves the Red Shadow.

_So,_ the sleemo was not only a slaver, but a terrorist, _great._

Anyways, Anakin managed to gather that this _Red Shadow_ wasn’t too happy about the Senate cracking down on their illegal spice trade. They got all indignant about it too, as if the high and mighty senators had no business interfering in their criminal activities. So they wanted to attack the Senate _itself;_ which Anakin concluded was just insane. He knew next to nothing about the Republic and politics, but he still knew their plan was absolute banthashit. They wanted to make a statement though, to get the Senate to fear them, and violence seemed to be the most viable option. 

That was really all he was able to garner from the conversation, but it was still a pretty damn big chuck of information. They were pretty hush-hush about the whole thing, certainly _no one_ was meant to overhear it (but then again Anakin had a knack for overhearing stuff he really shouldn’t be hearing. Whether it be conversations or, well… thoughts), and soon enough, Dask left to find his slimy-self a prostitute. 

Anakin figured that what he had just overheard was a _really big kriffing deal,_ and that he should probably do something about it, but what could he do, really? He was 9 years old. A slave. Dask allowed him no freedom of movement, no freedom of anything, and if Anakin had somehow accomplished notifying the local authorities, Dask would do things to him that made him shiver at the very thought. And in his 9 years of life, Anakin had been exposed to enough crime and pain and brutality to know there was truly no justice. The mean and the cruel always seemed to have all the power and leverage. Even if they were locked away, they’d still use their influence to manipulate and hurt others. For some people, it just wasn’t good enough to lock them away. Some people, Anakin decided, didn’t deserve to live in this galaxy.

In his darker moments, in flashes of hot anger and pure hate, Anakin imagined having his revenge. Those people, especially Dask, _had to pay._ It just wouldn’t be right otherwise. It was a matter of justice, albeit a more brutal form, but justice nonetheless. They couldn’t just cause people to hurt and hurt, and not get hurt in return. That just wasn’t right.

And that’s what it was. A matter of right and wrong. Anakin’s mom had always told him it was wrong to act vengefully. That it didn’t matter if they had hurt you, because violence was _always_ wrong, and by acting violently or hatefully, you were just sinking down to their level. She had told him that it was always best to be kind. This was one of his mother’s lessons that Anakin had struggled to reconcile, however. It’s not that he was particularly lustful in his desire for revenge. He didn’t imagine their blood, their disfigured bodies. He just wanted them dead and gone. He wanted them to vanish. Getting rid of them wouldn’t be sinking down to their level, but it would be doing the galaxy a favor. If they were dead, they couldn’t hurt anyone else, enslave more people, attack more governments. Anakin was sure his mother could agree with this logic. It was a matter of justice. It was for the greater good.  


 

* * *

 

“I take the upper half, you take the lower,” Qui-Gon directed his padawan before ambling towards the bar to grab a cheap beer, and then heading up a flight of stairs to the top floor of the cantina.

The cantina was _big,_ that much was clear. And while this was most assuredly the Red Shadow’s favorite place to get drunk and plot their next evil schemes, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but figure that he’d have a slim chance of actually gaining any information on the terrorist plot. Because _stars,_ not only was this place big, but it was jam-packed and obscenely loud. Obi-Wan could barely hear himself think, so how in the galaxy was he supposed to even _find_ the Red Shadow and eavesdrop on their plans? _Oh Force,_ this was much more complicated than he had originally thought it would be. 

He did, however, have a nifty ally called the Force. Reminding himself of his Master’s constant lessons about _letting the Force guide you,_ Obi-Wan did just that. Taking in a deep, calming breath, he closed his eyes and simply _listened._ As the Force tugged at him and steered him, Obi-Wan found himself moving without conscious thought as his feet floated towards a far corner of the cantina. 

At a circular steel table, sat a group of five men. They were of various species, but all seemed to have the same scowl permanently sealed onto their faces. A nudge in the Force told Obi-Wan that _these_ were the men he was looking for. 

Obi-Wan situated himself a careful distance away from the group, leaning casually against a wall, as if he were simply another pubescent boy attending a sketchy cantina. Yes, that’s all he was, he decided. A boy who loitered around the more slimy portions of Coruscant. Not too different than the other young boy in the cantina, Obi-Wan noted. But… _why in the stars would someone as young as him be hanging around a place like this?_ Sure, Obi-Wan was not that much older, but he had a mission here (not that anyone knew that). It was definitely shocking, and somewhat disturbing, that children younger than he actually hung out in places like this. Because oh, it was such a far, _far_ cry from the temple.

The boy had a head of scruffy blond hair and leaned stiffly against the back of a chair, situated in front of a small charcoal table. He was small and the chair was tall, causing his legs to swing awkwardly above the ground. A look of general disdain was drawn onto his face as he glaringly eyed the cantina’s inhabitants. In the Force, the boy’s emotions were chaotic and vibrant, about as clamorous as the cantina itself. Something about the boy intrigued Obi-Wan, and it wasn’t just the fact that he was a child in a cantina, it was something… else. But as much as Obi-Wan would have loved to ponder the nature of the boy, he forced himself to refocus on the menacing men at the table to his right.

He took a cautious step in their direction, struggling to hear their conversation. Inconspicuously, he turned his back towards them, purportedly taking in all of his surroundings aside from the particularly guilty-looking group in the corner.

“…make a statement,” a gruff voice spoke.

“… will force them to cease their interference in the trade,” another one snarled.

“The Senate has been sticking their dirty noses in our business for too long.”

Well, if that didn’t just scream “ _These are the terrorists you’re looking for!”_

Blocking out the cacophony of his surroundings, Obi-Wan centered his attention on the particular lifeforms in question. The Force heightened his senses, and the conversation came into clarity. The men spoke cautiously and quietly, careful to not expose any details to anyone who may be listening, though most people in the cantina would neither care nor be able to decipher a single word they were saying amongst the noise of the place. _But,_ Obi-Wan was not most people. 

Much to Obi-Wan’s dismay, they really didn’t expose any details of their plot. They said nothing of substance or intrigue, but instead rambled on about their vehement abhorrence for the Senate and Republic in general. So, while the exchange consisted of only nominal threats, Obi-Wan’s intuition told him that there was much more at stake here than the Council had originally believed. Some gentle poking and prodding into their minds only confirmed his suspicions; the threats would soon enough manifest themselves into reality.

_Well, not if I have anything to do about it,_ he mused to the unfamiliar click of a blaster. _Click of a blaster… wha—_

“Ay, watch out!” a small voice bellowed, soon enough followed by an equally small body tackling him to the ground.

It was the unusual blond boy.

“Wha— what in the stars are you doing?” Obi-Wan sputtered, shrugging the boy’s body off of him. He really didn’t have to ask however, as the circle of armed men surrounding him seemed to explain the predicament. 

“Saving your butt,” he muttered in response, “‘Cus they were boutta kick it,” he pushed himself to his feet.

“The hell ya think ya doin’ kid? _Spyin’_ on us?” a Weequay pointed a blaster directly between Obi-Wan’s eyes. 

“Oh— no! I was merely observing the cantina scene.” The boy— who had admittedly just prevented a few fists from greeting his face in an all too unfriendly manner— huffed. _Okay,_ maybe he wasn’t the best liar. He’d have to work on that.

“ _Observing the cantina scene,_ huh?” the Weequay chuckled, “I dunno, kid seems pretty suspicious to me. Whaddya think Mack?”

“Think I gotta agree with you on that one,” a Human, presumably Mack, strode forward, yanking Obi-Wan by the hair.

_This was not how the mission was intended to go,_ Obi-Wan considered cynically, giving the men a Force-push before drawing out his blue lightsaber. 

“Looks like we got ourselves a little _Jedi_ on our hands!”

To that, the _little Jedi,_ cunningly sliced the muzzles off of three blasters and the tip off of a knife. A quick glance to the side, and Obi-Wan saw his new and younger acquaintance was clearly shocked— if his gaping expression was any indication.

“C’mon! Let’s move it!” Obi-Wan urged the boy, dragging him by the bicep as he pushed their way through the blockade of men. The boy soon enough got the memo and took off in a sprint, but _of course_ the _Red Shadow_ would be entirely relentless. 

Obi-Wan did his best to simultaneously book-it out of the cantina and hold off his pursuers, which, was really rather complicated. 

_In a bit of a situation here, Master,_ Obi-Wan quipped to Qui-Gon through their Force-bond. And in time, Qui-Gon came flying down the stairs to the rescue.

“I see you’re already picking up the tactic of aggressive negotiations, my very young apprentice,” Qui-Gon smirked, stepping protectively in front of Obi-Wan.

“You could say so, Master.”

“Now go, I will hold them off for the time being.”

And Obi-Wan definitely did just _that_. He weaved his way through the crowds of people who were now gawking at him and the little fiasco he had created. Fortunately, he had a small stature to his advantage, and managed to press his way through the cantina easily enough.

He burst through sliding steel doors, breathing heavily from adrenaline. The sun was beginning to set in the Coruscant skyline and the air had grown starkly cool, for which Obi-Wan was grateful. The fresh and crisp air was a relieving contrast to the stuffy atmosphere of the cantina.

Obi-Wan soon found a certain blond-haired boy, who was now hiding in an alleyway with a frightened look on his face.

“Are you alright?” Obi-Wan spoke softly, taking small steps towards the boy who studied him with keen blue eyes. The boy’s presence in the Force… it was _strong,_ and unusually so. He by no means seemed to be trained in the ways of the Force, but his presence was loud and hectic.

“You’re a Jedi?” he asked, not bothering to respond to Obi-Wan’s question.

“Yes, a padawan learner. I- this was my first mission.” 

“Didn’t go so good, huh?” the boy chuckled, his taunt, nervous expression beginning to slacken.

“I suppose not,” the corner of Obi-Wan’s lips tugged into a smile. “I’m Obi-Wan.”

“Anakin.”

“Thank you for that. I’m surprised I was unable to see the attack coming,” Obi-Wan admitted, chastising himself for just that— he should have been more aware, kept his senses more open. And quite frankly, he was shocked that this boy, _Anakin,_ had reacted to the threat before he had even processed it himself. He had been much too absorbed in considering the future actions of the Red Shadow to pay mind to their present ones, namely _attacking him._

“No problem. Happy to help,” Anakin shrugged, “What was the mission ‘bout anyways?” his eyes quickly scanned the surrounding area. Obi-Wan presumed he was scouting out threats.

“I don’t believe that I can tell you that.”

“It was ‘bout those guys. Red Shadow, right? I heard ‘em talking, they wanna attack the Senate!” he said as if it were the most casual, inconsequential thing in the galaxy. But— _blast!_ They wanted to attack the Senate! This was indeed much, much bigger than the Council had initially imagined. The Red Shadow was not simply plotting the assassination of a single senator, but they were assaulting the Senate itself! 

Something on Obi-Wan’s face must have betrayed his shock because Anakin’s mouth formed an ‘O.’ “You didn’t know that?” he questioned. 

Before Obi-Wan had time to formulate a mildly coherent excuse, Qui-Gon seemed to materialize out of thin air.

“Know what?” The Jedi Master spoke, entirely unperturbed, as if he had not just _aggressively negotiated_ with a group of terrorists.

“The Red Shadow is planning to attack the Senate!” Obi-Wan spoke in a hushed tone, trying to mimic the placid nature of his Master.

Qui-Gon’s eyebrows raised in shock, “How do you know of this?”

“He told me,” he shrugged in Anakin’s direction.

“And you are?”

“I’m Anakin. I heard ‘em all talking earlier. They’re fed up that the Senate is messin’ with their spice trade so they wanna attack ‘em,” he explained, “ _and_ I saved Obi-Wan’s butt. They were gonna bash his face in, but I pushed him outta the way,” a proud smile gleamed on his face. So, humility was not his strong suit.

“Well, I must thank you for preventing my padawan’s face from getting _bashed in,_ as well as for this vital piece of information you have just given us. You’ve certainly been a great help to us today, Anakin,” Qui-Gon smiled kindly, extending his large hand to meet Anakin’s smaller one, “I am Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“Nice to meet you, Sir.”

“I don’t suppose you know anymore of this plot?” he crouched down to meet Anakin at eye-level.

Anakin shook his head, causing strands of blond hair to fall over his eyes. “No sir, but I can try and get more on it if ya need it? My m— I uh, know someone involved.”

A worried expression creased over Qui-Gon’s aged face. “I would not want to put you in any danger.”

“No, I can do it!” he said almost defiantly, “I wanna help.”

“I think it would be very beneficial, Master,” Obi-Wan urged. He was sure Anakin could be of help, and duties aside, he was beginning to take a liking to him. He was rather quirky and interesting, and Obi-Wan thought it would be a shame if he did not have a chance to see him again. Not that he had already grown attached, _no,_ but he did like Anakin. 

Qui-Gon considered the offer before speaking again. “Alright, then. Do you have a comlink? You will need one to communicate with Obi-Wan.” 

Anakin shook his head and his eyes were shadowed with something that looked almost like disappointment. “That is alright,” Obi-Wan stepped forward, “I will give you my com number. Find somewhere to contact me from as soon as you find any new information.” Anakin nodded in understanding. “The number is 295-3752. And remember, this is an _urgent_ situation,” Obi-Wan emphasized. They were placing a great deal of trust in a boy they had only just met and it was especially worrying considering the gravity of the situation. But if only temporarily, it seemed to be the best option. They needed answers, needed them quick, and scruffy-headed boy was currently their only hope.

“I’ll try and get answers quickly. You can trust me,” Anakin awkwardly reassured them, as if sensing Obi-Wan’s direct line of thought. Well, maybe he _did_ sense it, Obi-Wan briefly contemplated, considering he seemed to be shockingly Force-sensitive. 

“I am sure we can, Anakin. Once again, thank you,” Qui-Gon spoke respectfully as he pulled himself into a standing position.

“Wait— uh, those guys in the cantina? Whaddya do with ‘em?” Anakin interjected, suddenly tense. 

“Oh, not to worry,” he smiled, “I have dealt with them.”

Anakin suddenly become wide-eyed and interested, but did not press the matter. 

Obi-Wan extended a “thank you” to his new acquaintance before striding off towards the speeder, a step behind Qui-Gon.

“Dealt with them?” Obi-Wan inquired with the raise of a single eyebrow, once they were out of earshot of Anakin. 

“Oh, I merely threw some credits their way,” he smirked, stepping into the driver’s seat of the beat-up speeder. “They were quite relentless in their pursuit. That is, _until_ I offered them free drinks.”

_Of course,_ Obi-Wan giggled, his eyes peering off into a darkening city sky, illuminated by massive holo-screens, flashes of brightly-colored speeders, and artificial light stemming from daunting buildings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for me to get this chapter up! With final projects, SATs, AP and IB testing, and finals, the last two months of school have been hectic (and my soul has been slowly ripped from my body??). But now that I am finally on summer break updates will be much more often!


	4. Crime and Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Description of child abuse

Dask was mad. Okay, that was an understatement. Dask was _furious._ Breathing fire, red-hot rage type of furious. His unrelenting anger seemed to have incarnated itself; it stalked in shadowed corners and hung thickly in the stiff air of Anakin’s small-box-of-a-room. The beatings had yet to even commence, but Anakin could still _feel it._ The anger. It was toxic, radiating from every godforsaken scale of the Trandoshan’s body. It was suffocating, it was terrifying, and it was maddening. If Anakin were to reach out and touch it, the anger would become clawed and would bare ugly, jagged teeth to sink into soft skin.

Anakin had barricaded himself in his room, but he knew it was pointless. Dask would soon enough come storming in, roaring through Anakin’s one, weak line of defense: the door. He should just go and accept the beating, he figured. Get it over with. It was dumb to get sick with anticipation and fear anyways. It was coming, and it was going to hurt, so Anakin was really just delaying the inevitable. 

Curled up in a pathetic ball in a dark corner, he was already crying. _Kriff,_ he was crying and he hadn’t even started hurting yet. He didn’t want to be brave, didn’t want to even fight Dask, he just wanted to run back into his mother’s arms. He imagined her sweet, lovely voice. She was telling him that it was going to be okay, that he was going to be okay. For a second, Anakin almost believed her, _almost._ He wasn’t going to die, but he feared that whatever was coming would be much worse. He wanted to die. It would have been easier, at least. 

The tears started falling faster and faster, and Anakin helplessly clasped trembling hands over small ears. Maybe if he couldn’t hear Dask’s ire, he would be protected from it. 

_Oh mom, please help._ He needed to run so badly. 

All this for just helping the little kriffing Jedi boy. He didn’t regret helping the Jedi, per se, he just regretted what was coming. Anakin wanted to help, and what he had done, it was _important,_ could save lives, yet he had to suffer for it. 

_Maybe the Jedi could help me,_ he considered desperately. He had helped the Jedi, so couldn’t they help him in return? The Jedi were protectors, saviors! They were heroic, mystical, amazing, mesmerizing! The used magic powers and wielded swords made of light so surely, _surely,_ they could help him. Get rid of Dask for him. Anakin never wanted to see that sleemo’s face again, smell his pungent scaly flesh, spare him a single, ugly thought. The Jedi could help him get his mother back, and it could be _okay,_ actually okay. He could be free! For the first time in his life, he would never have to call anyone Master, would never have to live in fear.

But it really, _really,_ wouldn't be okay, would it?

Belligerent foot-steps shook the floor, growing louder with each passing second. Dask was right out there, outside the door, _inside the room._ His breath was dense with rage, it seethed and fumed, burning Anakin’s very skin. 

“So,” the Trandoshan spat, “I can’t leave you alone for a sSsssecond,” _that hissing sound,_ it made Anakin’s skin crawl. “You gotta go off and be ssSSssome hero, help a little _Jedi?”_

Anakin would have come up with some meek excuse, but he couldn’t make himself speak.

“A Jedi working against _me._ Against _Red Shadow!_ ” his voice roared now, reverberating in Anakin’s ears.

“M-Master, I swear! I d-didn’t know! I… I would _never_ do anything to disobey you, Master! I… I jus’ didn’t wanna see him get hurt!”

“I didn’t ask you to speak! You little worthless piece of shit!” the words slammed off the walls, striking Anakin in the face just as a fisted hand did the same. 

Anakin let out a yelp of pain as another fist met his face. And then his ribs. Then he was tossed across the room like less than a rag doll. Soft skin broke and bones cracked, open wounds cried with blood. Fear and pain engulfed the room, wrapping around a delicate trachea like a phantom, suffocating Anakin. It was all he could see, all he could _feel._ Pain. Fear.

Anger.

_“Get off!”_ a small voice bellowed and shrieked, arms flying defensively in-front his face to try and soften the impact of the clawed hand, of the blow that was to come.

The blow never came. The Trandoshan was instead flung across the room, his body crashing heavily into metal crates.

Anakin let out ragged, uneven breaths, blue eyes staring widely and incomprehensibly at the figure that lay prone on the opposite side of the room. Tears rolled down his cheeks as the mechanics of his brain turned in clamor and confusion. 

_How…? Had he just done that?_ the thought occurred to him dimly, his eyes now fixated on the palms of his hands. They were trembling profusely, but had _they_ just done _that?_

“ _You!”_ a wrathful voice penetrated the quiet disorder. 

“N-n-no!” Anakin choked, stumbling as far away from Dask as the room would allow. “I dunno what happened! Please!” he cried impotently. He couldn’t have done that! _He couldn’t have!_ He felt _it,_ felt the waves of energy rumble through his body, forcefully slam against Dask. But he _couldn’t have_ because he had no idea how it happened, or how to do it again, and all it meant for him was that Dask was only going to get angrier because Anakin had hurt him, because he had fought back against a Master! And he didn’t mean it, _really._ He could be rash and he could be bold, and sometimes he refused to submit with the pathetic ease that other slaves did, the ones who were worn-out by time and punishment and suffering, but he would never _ever_ strike a Master. As much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t, because he knew it always left slaves dead, to be eaten away by the suns and the sand. He wondered how they disposed of slaves on Coruscant.

He felt something, though. Aside from his own depthless, impenetrable fear, he felt _Dask’s fear._ It was slight and it was hushed, but it was alive and pulsating. In the midst of his own fright, agony, and imminent peril, Anakin allowed himself to feel it, truly _feel_ Dask’s fear. And just for a moment, he relished in it, because, however fleetingly, he held power over Dask. For a few, fugitive seconds, he was the fist, the hammer, and the Master. It felt good to no longer be weak and vulnerable. It felt like strength and dominance. 

But like everything else, the power was transitory. Destined to fracture and wither away, destined to fall and meet an inevitably painful end. 

And the Trandoshan rose. Slowly, menacingly. “You, boy, _will_ regret that.”

 

* * *

 

The Force hummed softly and peacefully as Qui-Gon meditated in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. The calm was deceptive, however. In the greater expanse of Coruscant, the Force was almost fretful. At least, that was how his padawan described it.

He encountered a boy. Anakin. The boy’s presence screamed of untamed power, and the Living Force seemed to flow through him in a way that Qui-Gon had never felt before. It was angry, crashing waves, yet tranquil and swelling tides. It shined brightly and furiously, yet was shadowed by darkness. And as the Jedi Master meditated, and _listened,_ he became convinced that it was the boy who caused the disturbance.

A part of him refuted that idea, immediately. After all, how could one untrained child be the source of such a significant disturbance? The notion seemed unrealistic, somewhat preposterous. But then, there was the matter of what Qui-Gon _felt_. Anakin had been something of a vergence in the Force, and he sensed _,_ with an odd certainty, that it was the Will of the Force that brought him to the boy.

In the Force, a message appeared to the Jedi Master, and maybe it was warning, but it told him, with but a small degree of doubt, that the boy was important. More-so than Qui-Gon had initially perceived. And a servant of the Force above all, he listened. To him, the Force whispered and it screamed. It trembled with fear and it surged with power. It gave no answers, allowed for no conclusions, yet it murmured something of balance and prophecy.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan was generally the paragon of Jedi-serenity in a padawan-learner. At the moment, however, such serenity seemed to elude him entirely. He was frustrated,  _angry._ He swore he felt his blood beginning to boil (and in no sense other than the literal).

Bruck Chun tended to have such an affect on him. His age-old rival brought forth all the emotions Obi-Wan preferred to ignore, the emotions he desperately wanted to believe he was above. _Apparently,_ he bitterly acknowledged, such _undesirable_ emotions only seemed to lay dormant beneath his facade of Jedi-serenity, and they were all too willing to come to the fore the moment Obi-Wan encounter Bruck. 

It was only sparring, nothing serious. Not a life or death situation. If Obi-Wan lost this particular one, he would not dwindle from existence, and the galaxy would certainly not stop. _Still,_ he was competitive, in the way only boys approaching their teenage years could be, and his pride was on the line in a very real sense. 

To put it simply, and somewhat rashly, Bruck was an asshole, and Obi-Wan couldn’t let him win.

There was something of a bet going on among the younger of the padawans and the older of the initiates. There were no actual credits involved, of course. It was really only tenuous pubescent-pride and transitory satisfaction that hung in the balance. 

“ _C’mon,_ Oafy- _Wan,”_ Bruck taunted, “that’s all you got?” he struck a hard blow against Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, causing him to stumble back. 

Obi-Wan’s nose wrinkled in irritation, “You shouldn’t have asked,” he retorted all too properly for the exasperation he felt. He pushed back at his nemesis, raising his ‘saber in a wide arch, striking hard and angrily. 

“Dueling like _that,_ I’m surprised you even got chosen as an apprentice,” he countered Obi-Wan’s blow easily, once again taking the offensive.

“You’re just jealous that you haven’t yet been chosen,” Obi-Wan sneered, performing an all too reckless Force-assisted flip over Bruck. It had been an entirely impulsive move, he knew that, but he also knew that it would force Bruck into a more defensive position.

And after all, where was the fun in it if there was no danger involved?

Obi-Wan mounted an attack, his ‘saber swinging with thinly concealed fury. “You talk a big game for someone who can’t seem to back it up,” he let a confident smirk gleam across his face as he inflicted another blow to Bruck’s ever-failing defense. Perhaps a little too much, he enjoyed the sense of power he felt over Bruck. He knew it wasn’t right, it wasn’t the Jedi way, but he couldn’t completely help himself, because _Force_ did that boy get on his nerves. 

Maybe, just _maybe,_ Bruck would finally leave him be if he just won this duel. And this duel was _his,_ Obi-Wan noted with a swell of pride. His opponent was exhausted, his defenses weakening quickly…

“Padawan!” the word stung in the air, sharp and unwelcome.

_Oh, blast._

Almost immediately, Obi-Wan’s ‘saber dropped to the floor as he grudgingly turned to face his master.

“What is this, a little impromptu sparring lesson?” Qui-Gon eyed Obi-Wan and Bruck with an accusing gaze that was sure to make any padawan quiver.

“ _Ah-_ Master,” Obi-Wan’s eyes hesitantly met his Master’s, a hand swept anxiously through his hair. “You see, Bruck and I… we simply wanted to practice with one another.”

“Is that so?” the room became stark silent, even the giggles and murmurs of other padawans and initiates hushed, and Obi-Wan wanted to do nothing more than sink back into himself. “And without any supervision?”

“I-uh-I was thoughtless in my actions Master, I apologize,” he finally conceded. Scrambling for further excuses would only be futile, Obi-Wan decided. Qui-Gon had caught him very much red-handed, and he could already hear the whispers of a thousand unspoken punishments for his actions. 

“Come with my, my _very young_ apprentice _,”_ his Master’s voice was sharp, biting. _Force, did that sting._

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan bowed his head in submission, his shoulders slumping in an abandonment of pride. He heard a chuckle echo through the training room, and he couldn’t help but feel something like aggravation pique in him. _Chun._

_“_ You’re in an awfully good mood for someone who just lost,” he snapped, his anger seeping out.

“And you, youngling,” Qui-Gon pointed an accusatory finger at Bruck, “do not be so remiss to believe that your actions will be without punishment, either.”

Just as his master dragged his body and pride from the training room, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but feel a prickle of joy in seeing Bruck’s cocky grin turn into a stone statue of terror. Qui-Gon was kind and understanding, but he could be just as petrifying as any other Jedi Master when he wished. 

As they returned to their quarters, Qui-Gon sat Obi-Wan down on a meditation cushion with the stern vexation of a concerned father. 

“Young one,” he began, sitting opposite of his padawan. His voice was steady, but it carried a certain heaviness to it. “This is rather uncharacteristic behavior for you.” The unstated question was present, _why? do you care to explain yourself?_

“I realize the error of my actions, Master,” his tone was cautious, yielding. Obi-Wan found himself unable to properly express himself, unable to convey his reasoning. _His reasoning—_ therein lay the issue. There was a lack of reasoning, truthfully. The problem at hand did not primarily derive from Obi-Wan’s (and Bruck’s) adolescent errant actions. Even young Jedi disobeyed rules at times. _The problem_ lay in the fact that Obi-Wan deliberately acted in anger towards Bruck. Both master and apprentice realized this, and apprentice undoubtably regretted it. “It’s just, Bruck…” Obi-Wan chagrined, his logic (or lack thereof, he confessed with a sigh) already sounded feeble. “He has been picking on me, endlessly. I have tried my best to ignore him, Master. To not react to his taunts,” he paused, collecting his thoughts. “We have had some… unsanctioned duels before. I see that this may be disrespectful to the rules, to the Masters,” he admitted, his eyes meeting Qui-Gon’s. His expression was earnest, sorrowful. “But, they… _our duels,_ on my part at least, they have mostly been in good faith. I have never acted so much on my emotions, my anger before. I am sorry, Master.”

Qui-Gon remained silent for an uncomfortable amount of time, considering his padawan’s actions.

“Obi-Wan,” he finally breathed, “I would never doubt your virtue as a Padawan. I have great faith in you, and I do not fear there to be any greater implications for your actions today. You will make a great Jedi. You are strong and resilient. However, you must learn to control yourself better. As a Jedi, you will unfortunately be forced to deal with situations that are much more emotionally-trying than taunting from a peer.”

Obi-Wan dipped his head in acknowledgment. He knew this, but how else was he supposed to get Bruck to shut up? He figured, all he had to do was defeat Bruck in a sparring match, and then the boy would leave him be. “I understand, Master,” he heaved a sigh.

“Anger can be dangerous, my very young apprentice. It is okay to feel it, and it is okay to be angry at Bruck for how he has acted towards you. A Jedi must not act on this anger, though; for when you act on it, that is when it becomes corruptive.”

“Then what am I supposed to do, when I become angry?” his face scrunched in frustration, confusion. He had heard, over and over, to release his emotions into the Force. And he did that often, and he did it well. Yet, much to his dismay, his emotions occasionally got the better of him. They made him irrational and impulsive, everything a Jedi should not be.

“Remember, Obi-Wan, the Force is always with you. Feel your anger, acknowledge it, and then release it into the Force. Emotions can be deceptive, but so long as you listen to the Force with a clear mind, it will guide you.”

“Master, you make this sound easier than it is.”

“I know,” he grinned sympathetically, “but with time and with practice, and _patience,_ it will become easier, and you must trust that it will. You are far too hard on yourself, young one.”

Obi-Wan nodded in understanding, but he remained dubious. He was not so sure that it _would_ become easier, because more often than not, he felt like a failure. And while he was committed to being a Jedi, and committed to serving the galaxy, he sometimes questioned whether or not he deserved to be a Jedi. He knew Qui-Gon would refute the notion immediately, but the self-doubt always seemed to remain. It was imbedded in Obi-Wan, deeply and thoroughly, showing itself often, in varying degrees of severity. It nagged, it scratched, and it clawed.

“I think that is enough talking for now, my Padawan,” it was Qui-Gon who spoke next, his voice filling the silence with something more comfortable and inviting. “Now, why don’t you go and make dinner?”

“D-dinner?” Obi-Wan practically chocked out. He _never_ made dinner, and cooking was _not_ something his 12 year-old skill-set expanded to. “Is this my punishment?” the corners of his lips tugged up into a smile.

Qui-Gon paused before responding, as if considering the question. “Only part of it,” he smirked, and Obi-Wan let out a weak groan in protest. He hated cooking. _And_ there was more punishment. Probably running laps around the Temple, he figured. “Sparring without supervision can be dangerous, Padawan. You were rather reckless today, you cannot expect to get off scot-free.”

“I don’t know, Master. My cooking may be more of a punishment to _you,_ than it is to _me.”_

“Get to work, young one,” he retorted amiably as Obi-Wan shuffled towards the small kitchen, pulling ingredients off neatly-organized shelves and grabbing food from the stainless steel refrigerator. It would be salad and omelette tonight, because well, truth be told, that was likely the only food Obi-Wan could make that wouldn’t result in a kitchen fire or food poisoning. 

“Master,” Obi-Wan spoke, his voice hesitant, as he cracked eggs into a ceramic bowl.

“Yes?”

“The boy… The one we met in the cantina. Anakin,” he paused, contemplating the boy, as he whisked the eggs and then poured them into a skillet. “Do you think we are right, to be putting so much faith in him?” 

It concerned him, the burden they were putting on a boy they had just met. He stressed over the mission, yes, but he was also troubled over Anakin. He felt a persistent sort-of worry for him, and he didn’t know why. He had met him only once, and for all but a few minutes, yet he was _nervous_ for him. And maybe it was ridiculous to fret over someone you barely knew, Obi-Wan thought. But he also couldn’t help it. The situation just didn’t seem _right,_ for more reasons than he cared to think about.

“I do,” Qui-Gon said definitively, the aroma of eggs cooking filling their quarters, swirling through the air. “There is… something about the boy. I believe we can trust him to acquire the information we need, and I believe we must trust him. Currently, he is our only hope on thwarting the imminent attack. We have no choice but to put our faith in him.”

Obi-Wan sighed, his hands delicately placing cheese in the omelettes. “I know. I am worried for him, though. I think we’re putting him in a dangerous situation.” Anakin was young, younger than Obi-Wan, and just a civilian. And so much of this just felt _wrong._ He was determined to prevent the attack, to save lives, but he also had to acknowledge the ever-growing pit of anxiety that settled uncomfortably in his stomach. It was _wrong,_ because Obi-Wan felt, or maybe he knew, that this would end badly for the boy. The boy who jumped between blasters and daggers to protect someone he didn’t even know, and who would probably, once again, be doing the same, to help people he didn’t even know. No, it didn’t sit right at all.

“I fear this may be true,” to Qui-Gon’s credit, he sounded resigned, “but the boy is our only option.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, critiques, kudos, ect. sustain me!!  
> I'm the only one proof reading this thing, so let me know if you see any typos/errors.  
> I'm also squashing the ages of some of Obi-Wan's peers. So Bruck Chun, Bant Eerin, and a few other Jedi will be around Anakin and Obi-Wan's age, instead of being adults like they would be in canon, by the time of TPM.  
> And I'm not gonna have Bruck die like he does in Jedi Apprentice. I'm gonna keep him around for some drama lol  
> Hope you all enjoy!


	5. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: non-explicit description of child abuse and rape.  
> I changed the title of the story from Call Them Brothers to To Find the Sun... the latter is more fitting I think

His body ached, throbbed, just plain _hurt_ in ways Anakin hadn’t thought possible. His right eye was purple and puffy, his ribs definitely felt broken (if the inability to do so much as breath without sharp shooting pains was any indication), and somehow even his brain hurt as it ceaselessly pounded in his skull. And he was tired, oh _so_ tired. Tired in a way one so young should never have to be, tired in a way in which even sleep seemed fruitless.

Anakin didn’t sleep. It was dark and it was late, and as much as he wanted to fall forever into the oblivion of sleep, he couldn’t. Besides, his broken body protested every movement he tried to make, so he just slumped lazily again the door of his room, in the most comfortable position he could muster. He didn’t feel like moving, didn’t feel like crawling his way to the dirty old mattress on which he slept. In fact, he didn’t _feel_ like much at all. He felt neither cold fright nor hot anger. He felt profoundly _nothing_ , aside from the pain that pervaded his body. He didn’t cry to his mom for help, didn’t pray to the deities for saving. Right now, he was too resigned for that. It’s not that he had given up hope. He was resilient, unwilling to fall apart, to splinter, but for now, he couldn’t help but break just a little. 

Outside, he heard a door slide open, followed by the conspiratorial whispers of two voices that were not Dask’s own. Anakin thought he recognized one of them, maybe one of Dask’s buddies from the cantina. A light shone in the main room of the apartment, some of it seeping through the cracks in Anakin’s door. There was the padding of footsteps, an abrupt stop, the quiet screeching of chairs. Ignoring the angry protests of his damaged body, Anakin inched closer to the door, pressing an ear against it to listen. The door was thin, and the only sound penetrating the shadowy stillness of the apartment were the voices of those convening outside his room. The conversation came into clarity, and Anakin urged himself to concentrate on the voices, to listen.

“‘Nuff with the pleasantries,” a gruff, familiar voice spoke.

“Down to buissSssness then,” Dask hissed in agreement.

Anakin got the itching feeling that this was going to be important.

“The attack is forthcoming,” a third, unfamiliar voice. It was a woman that spoke, Anakin noted. Unlike the others, she spoke with striking formality. “Yet we have had some _difficulties_ securing our weapons shipment,” she paused and Anakin imagined her eyes were like daggers. “The next shipment will be arriving in nine days time at 2100 standard hours, the eastern shipping yard. Look for three Falleen men, they are the dealers.” The woman spoke in a hushed tone, her very words dripping with conspiracy and murder.

“We dealin’ with Black Sun here?” Dask inquired.

There was no verbal confirmation, but Anakin was sure she nodded. “Black Sun is a _powerful_ ally, and we are stronger if we are in league with them,” there was a hint of a warning there. “ Dask, Mack, I trust you both. That’s why I’m trusting you with receiving and securing the weapons. I don’t think I need to remind you how vital this shipment is.” 

It amazed Anakin, really. How oblivious Dask was to the threat, that quite literally, lurked in his own home. It almost made him feel better, gave him a sense of power over Dask. Because the information was all there for Anakin, all he had to do was _listen._ Dask and his associates, they ran their mouths around Anakin. Because to them, Anakin was nothing, _no one._ Worthless, small, unimportant, a _slave._ And while, with each passing day, his resolve to maintain his personhood grew weaker, he came to realize that he was _something._ He was a threat, and for now, that was enough. Maybe he was nothing and no one. Maybe the galaxy truly didn’t care about him. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt Dask. And maybe, now, that’s why he was helping the Jedi, because the line between wanting to help and wanting vengeance had blurred. Dask had hurt him, and hurt him, and _hurt_ him, and now, Anakin was going to hurt him back. 

In the background, the discussion shifted from weapons shipment and logistics to what was supposed to be an amusing story about a drunk bar fight. Anakin heard their obnoxious cackling and the clanking of bottles, but no longer bothered to listen. His mood, in the slightest way, had shifted. Resignation had warped into something like hope. Not hope for himself, not hope for his future, but hope for the future that awaited Dask. All Anakin had to do was tell that Jedi, Obi-Wan, about the weapons shipment, and Dask could end up rotting in a cell for what Anakin hoped was an eternity. He acknowledged a previous sentiment of his, that some people didn’t deserve to live in this galaxy, Dask included, but he also realized that there were some things worse than death. Having your freedom and dignity completely stripped from you, for one. _Yeah,_ Anakin would know something about that.

“ _Boy!”_ Dask barked, shaking Anakin from the vengeful path his thoughts were leading him down. He was always addressed as _boy_. Never was he Anakin, never was he treated as an individual with a name, he was just _boy._ But there were other words too, of course. Words that were spat with disgust and contempt. Words that made Anakin’s skin crawl, his stomach churn, his body shake. Words that were uttered at him from those with craving eyes and harsh hands. He didn’t know why people called him those words, what he’d done to deserve those awful names…

“Get out here! Come, be a good _little boy,_ we got need of you.”

… _what he’d done to deserve this._

Gingerly, he lifted himself onto his feet, forcing himself out of his room to face a fate he didn’t want to meet. As he confronted three sets of leering eyes, his body went slack, his shoulders hunched over, his eyes pinned to the ground in misery and dread.

The first few times he tried to fight it. But that only made it worse. Quickly he had learned that it was better to not resist. Better to resign yourself, because _maybe,_ it would hurt every-so-slightly less.

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t ya?” the human woman’s voice slithered, a salacious smirk smeared across her face. She extended a malicious hand, summoning him. Anakin squeezed his eyes shut and complied. 

Oh, how he wished and wished he could disappear from this awful, awful place.

 

* * *

 

When Anakin awoke, it was the afternoon. Light shone harshly through the windows and the apartment was empty, save for Anakin and Dask’s pet gurrcat, Raptor. He didn’t know why Dask had a pet, considering he never seemed to care for him and he wasn’t kind to him. He assumed the gurrcat was for intimidation purposes. Raptor could be vicious and violent, but Anakin supposed that wasn’t completely Raptor’s fault. Dask treated him harshly and always kept him tied up with a heavy, brutal metal chain.

Anakin should have been scared of the gurrcat, considering Raptor always seemed to want to steal a chunk of flesh from somebody’s body, but he wasn’t. He understood him. He felt Raptor’s fear and anger, his sense of imprisonment. He understood that Raptor wasn’t naturally bad and ferocious, but that he was just responding to his situation the only way he knew how. And lying on the cold floor in the main room of Dask’s apartment, his body and mind stiff with pain, staring into the pleading yet wrathful eyes of Raptor, Anakin was sure the gurrcat understood _him_ as well. 

Curled up on his side, Anakin stretched a gentle hand towards Raptor’s nose. Raptor was agitated, howling and restless, and Anakin sensed the gurrcat’s desire to _run._ Run out of this cruddy apartment. Run to freedom.

“ _Me too,”_ he whispered solemnly. Raptor seemed to have heard Anakin’s words of sympathy, of comfort, as he tentatively touched his nose to the back of Anakin’s hand, sniffing it, unsure. “It’s okay, Raptor, you don’t gotta be scared. I’m not gonna hurt you.” Raptor’s body seemed to relax, his golden eyes softened. Unsteadily, he approached Anakin. He wasn’t hurt, but Anakin thought something about the gurrcat looked wounded. 

Raptor sniffed Anakin’s face, and then his hair. Anakin kept muttering words of assurance, kindly running a hand through short brown fur. On some deep level, in a way Anakin couldn’t quite explain, the gurrcat connected to the boy, and the boy to the gurrcat. Eventually, Raptor warily laid down next to Anakin, his head snuggled beneath his bruised arm. He comforted Anakin in the way Anakin had just comforted him, and Anakin was grateful. 

“Thank you,” Anakin mumbled to the gurrcat, hugging him closer to his body. Tears silently fell down his cheeks, and he felt so lost and confused because he really, for the life of him, couldn’t understand why this was happening to him. He couldn’t understand why people were so cruel to him, why they wanted to hurt him, why _no one_ , no one but Raptor, seemed to care about him. Anakin’s life had always been marred by violence and slavery, but the galaxy had never seemed as unfair as it did now. Raptor whimpered his solace. 

Anakin laid there, on the floor, for some time, his dejected gaze bleeding into Raptor’s despairing one. He had to get up though, had to comm Obi-Wan while Dask was still away. And while his body and mind were adamant to remain slumped on the floor, Anakin strained himself up. Slowly, he limped into Dask’s room. Clothes, boxes, and other miscellaneous items scattered the floor and the air smelled distinctly of spice and alcohol. With a steadiness he did not feel, Anakin searched the room for a comm. Thankfully, he fairly quickly managed to find one stashed in Dask’s desk drawer. 

Situated on the edge of Dask’s bed, Anakin thumbed in Obi-Wan’s comm number, _295-3752._ To his surprise, a blue-tinted holo of Obi-Wan’s face appeared almost instantly.

“Uh, hi,” Anakin said hesitantly. 

The face scrunched up in concern, and Anakin couldn’t help but notice that _the face,_ Obi-Wan, was actually quite cute. If he hadn’t been so tired, so utterly despondent, he would have blushed. “Y-you’re face,” Obi-Wan stammered. “ _Force,_ what happened, are you okay?” 

Oh, right. He had almost forgotten. _His_ face was bruised and swollen, and now that he thought about it, throbbing. “Oh, uh, i-it’s nothin’,” Anakin unconvincingly shrugged it off.

“ _No,_ it’s not nothing!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, and Anakin was more or less shocked at how concerned the other boy was. Obi-Wan barely knew him, why should he care? “You have a black eye! And your cheek- it’s all cut open. What _happened?”_ he insisted again.

Stern, almost angry this time, “It’s nothing, okay!” It _was_ something though. It was painfuland everything was horrible, but Anakin just didn’t want to think about it. Because thinking about it, really thinking about it, made it even worse. “I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it,” but a part of him _did_ want to talk about it, because he wanted, no, _needed,_ help. But he was too afraid and too ashamed to say anything. It was as if he dared to whisper a word to anyone, Dask would know immediately and would detonate his explosive slave chip, leaving Anakin to be nothing more than a scattered array of flesh and brain and bone. 

“Just… if anything is wrong, _please_ let me know,” Obi-Wan implored, and Anakin gave a noncommittal grunt in reply. “Did you comm because you have information?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I overheard that, uh, there’s gonna be a weapons shipment. It’s gonna be eight days from now… the eastern shipping yard at 2100 standard hours. I heard that they’re picking up the weapons from some Falleen guys.” 

“And members of Red Shadow will be there to receive the weapons?”

“Yeah. I think it’s gonna be two males. A Human and a Trandoshan.”

Obi-Wan nodded enthusiastically. “Thank you so much, Anakin. This is a big help.”

“Sure it’s fine, I guess.” 

“If you find out any more information, and if you ever need help, comm me.” 

“Okay,” he said warily. And then, before Obi-Wan had time to hang up, “Wait, um-, so, you… you’re a Jedi? Right?” He knew it was a dumb question, _obviously_ he was a Jedi, but Anakin was also so _so_ incredibly lonely, and he had no one but Raptor to talk to, and that was the first thing that came to his mind to say.

“Yes, I am a Padawan learner,” he told him good-naturedly, and Anakin sensed a hint of pride in his voice.

“A Padawan? What’s that?”

“It means I’m apprenticed to a Jedi Knight or Master, for one-on-one training.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Anakin nodded awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. “So what’s it like? Being a Jedi?” While he didn’t know much about the Jedi, he had always wanted to be one. He wanted to carry a lasersword and be powerful and save the day. He even dreamed about it, once. That he was a Jedi and went back to Tatooine to free all the slaves. It had felt so _real_ that when he woke up he had a hard time convincing himself that he _wasn’t_ a Jedi who saved all the slaves, but that instead, he was still a slave. And the bitter, hopeless part of him supposed that was all he’d ever be.

Obi-Wan seemed to consider the question before answering. “I have only just become a Padawan, but it’s hard work, being a Jedi,” he said finally, “it’s hard, but worth it. A Jedi helps and protects those in need, and that is all I ever hope to do,” as he spoke, his voice was peaceful, hopeful. His eyes gleamed, and a small, earnest smile appeared on his face.

Anakin liked how that sounded. He liked the idea of being able to protect people, save people. When he was younger, back on Tatooine, he professed to his mom that he was going to save _all_ the slaves. His mom told him he couldn’t always save everyone. Even now, here, away from his mom, away from any thread of comfort and safety he had ever known, he still didn’t want to believe that. He still wanted to save everyone.

“I once had a dream I was a Jedi…” Anakin told him, and he wasn’t quite sure why he did. Maybe if he told him, it could come true. “I went back to my home planet, Tatooine, to free all the slaves. It felt so _real._ I thought it was,” his voice was somber and wistful, his blue eyes distant and shadowy. 

The Jedi nodded in understanding, but Anakin wasn’t so sure he really understood. “Where’s Tatooine?”

“It’s in the Outer Rim. It’s jus’ one big dustball,” he shrugged, “and it’s really hot. There’s two suns.”

“Two suns?” the boy cringed, “that sounds _unpleasant.”_

_“_ Unpleasant? Yeah, no kiddin’,” Anakin huffed, _unpleasant_ was the understatement of the century.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan ended the holotransmission, sighing. He’d gotten very useful, _important,_ information, but he was worried _._ Anakin’s face looked awful and his eyes terrified, and he was entirely unwilling to let Obi-Wan do anything to help him. Worst of all, he hadn’t the slightest clue _how_ he could help the boy. Especially when he wouldn’t tell him what was wrong!

A horrible thought occurred to Obi-Wan. Was what happened to Anakin _his_ fault? He knew he’d gotten Anakin into a rather dangerous situation, but was Anakin now paying for it? Or was it something else entirely, and he was just being paranoid? Maybe he got hurt playing some sport. Obi-Wan wished that to be true, but honestly, he knew it wasn’t.

This was the first time he had actually talked to Anakin, but he already liked him. For about 45 minutes, they talked. They didn’t just talk about the Jedi, but about different planets and about their interests. Truth be told, Obi-Wan would have kept talking to him if his Master hadn’t pulled him away for a meditation session.

For the remainder of the day, through meditation and through math class, through dinner and then as he collapsed on his bed to fall asleep, Obi-Wan thought about Anakin. He knew it was unbecoming of a Jedi, to have your thoughts so absorbed by the presence of another. Yet, he couldn’t help it. He feared for Anakin and he also… well he couldn’t really name the feeling, but it felt like butterflies were fluttering in his stomach and the Force was dancing around him. Even with his face so discolored and swollen, Anakin had brilliant bright blue orbs for eyes, a friendly smile, and a cute head of scruffy blond hair. 

Oh Force help him, this couldn’t be the seeds of attachment (so soon? already?), no, it was simply… _admiration._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anakin is an awful situation and suffering immensely, but he unknowingly connected through the Force with a gurrcat... and he and Obi-Wan are starting to get to know one another.


	6. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: More descriptions of child abuse

Qui-Gon crept in the shadows, Plo Koon following just steps behind. The night was still, frigid, but for the illegal weapons deal that was currently occurring, it was not nearly as eerie as one might expect. No, there was no ominous background music, no feeling of impending doom, just surreptitious whispers and the clanking sound of moving weapons crates. 

There was a burly Trandoshan and a heavily tattooed human, both illuminated by the shipping yard’s dim lights. The Falleen members of Black Sun were there too, but they were mere silhouettes, barely there. Qui-Gon sensed maybe four of them, but there could have been more hiding deeper in the night.

_Speaking of hiding,_ he had just about enough of that. Momentarily, he shifted his gaze to the Kel Dor that stood sturdily at his back, giving him a nod. The weapons deal was going to end, rather abruptly. Thus, in a somewhat (absurdly) dramatic manner—that Qui-Gon was not hesitant to admit was typical of Jedi—he jumped down from a large steel crate, flipping once before he landed at his feet. Plo followed gracefully behind. Two lightsabers ignited with a hiss, as the motley crew of culprits scrambled for their arms. 

“ _Stand down,”_ Plo’s rumbling voice ordered, and the gaggle of criminals didn’t seem particularly inclined to listen. Briefly, while deflecting blaster bolts, Qui-Gon mused on how the criminals _never_ seemed to listen, even when they knew it was a loosing battle. They never intended on going out easily, and he supposed there was something admirable in that, if one ignored the fact that they were, well, criminals. 

Qui-Gon jumped to the center of the blaster fire, deftly slicing off the blasters’ barrels with a quick stroke of the lightsaber. “Stand down,” Qui-Gon repeated, a warning, a reminder. “You’re defeated, there is no sense in fighting.” One of the Falleen seemed to realize this, trying to make a dash for it (like that really would have worked?), to which the Jedi Master unenthusiastically Force-pushed him against a crate. 

The still-armed Trandoshan was intent on fighting though, a savage growl on his face as he continued firing his blaster with a vicious urgency. He took heavy, almost frightened steps backwards, still firing, _still_ firing, but trying to elude the Jedi at the same time. Qui-Gon deflected the blaster bolts with a practiced ease, as Plo, unperturbed as ever, apprehended the Falleen arms dealers. 

A shrieking yelp abruptly cut through the sound of blaster fire, and the familiar looking man with tattoos fell to the ground, cringing in pain. Desperately, he clutched at his knee, his body vibrating with agony. The surprisingly agile Trandoshan took this opportunity to flee, quickly pushing himself onto a medium-sized shipping crate, driving over it with striding steps, before jumping down to be hidden by the shipping-yard’s plethora of boxes and crates.

Hesitating only momentarily, Qui-Gon followed, jumping onto the crate, and flipping back down. What he found on the other side, however, was a labyrinth. Cursing the Force-forsaken shipping yards, he moved forward—now was _not_ the time for a maze. There were too many crates: tall ones, wide ones, small ones. There were too many diverging paths as well, so Qui-Gon could only trust in the Force to lead him in the correct direction. 

The Trandoshan was certainly evasive, Qui-Gon could hand him that. With the adroitness of a well-practiced criminal, he’d managed to escape the watchful gaze of the experienced Jedi. Still, while his body disappeared amongst the crates and in the night, his presence did not. Qui-Gon chased the rotten, vile presence, but even as he raced forward, the presence grew dimmer, escaping further into the night. He heard the sudden buzz of a speeder, saw it flash red, before dashing into the overwhelming vastness of the Coruscant underground. 

Qui-Gon sped back to the crime scene. There, an ambulance already arrived to whisk the injured Human away to a hospital, and team of law enforcement officers pushed the Falleen men into police speeders.

“You made quick work of them here,” Qui-Gon amiably remarked to Plo, who watched as the Falleen were shoved into the speeders.

“The Trandoshan?” he inquired.

“Managed to escape.”

“The Black Sun arms dealers will be detained at the jail nearest the Temple,” Plo informed him now, “We will question them there.”

“Very well,” he sighed, clipping his lightsaber to his belt, “and of the Human?”

“He is to be taken to the hospital in CoCo Town. As soon as his condition permits it, we’ll go in for questioning.”

 

* * *

 

Dask was _not_ supposed to be here—the Jedi were supposed to have arrested Dask by now. The Jedi were _supposed_ to have caught Dask in the midst of an illegal arms deal. Dask should be locked up in a tiny cell right about now, preparing to waste away in prison.

Oh Force— no, oh no, this was all wrong, it wasn’t meant to happen like this. Shaking, wanting to cry, Anakin burrowed himself behind four steel boxes that stood stacked in his room. He was going to die like this, here, he was sure of it, because Dask was so _so_ mad. Dask was always angry, always beating Anakin on a whim, but _no,_ this was different. He was seething in incomprehensible rage, and Anakin could hear it, feel it. Outside his room, he heard glass shatter and pieces of furniture crash to the floor with resounding thuds. Everything felt like a scorching fire, but everything also felt deathly icy and cold.

To all the deities he knew, Anakin prayed. To the god that controls the storms, and to the goddess who rules the suns. To the goddess of health and healing, and to the god of all that is death and dying. With shaking hands he prayed that they _please_ save him, because he really didn’t want to die here. His mom would never know what happened to him, she’d never be able to see him again, never be able to tell him her loved her for the last time, as she buried his body beneath the sand. 

Dask didn’t know that it was Anakin who notified the Jedi of the weapons deal, but that didn’t really matter, did it? The Trandoshan was malevolent and boiling with murderous rage; he didn’t care about the lies or the truths, he was going to blame Anakin regardless. As always, as is the story of a slave, Anakin was to bear the brunt of his venom and cruelty. He knew this as fact—he had for some time now—but it didn’t make the reality any easier. A slave’s back was a canvas to be defiled with lash marks and scars, and a slave’s fate was to be determined by a master’s will.

Through his room’s mucky window, he despairingly glanced out, getting a glimpse of the moon—it was a full moon, tonight— that hung peacefully and faithfully in the black of the night. The stars had been clouded over by the smog and pollution of Coruscant, but the moon was still there. While even the stars seemed to have abandoned him, the moon was steadfast; even as the sun rose in the morning to light up the sky, the moon never really left, it was just hiding away. With tears fogging his vision, Anakin did not forget the moon in his prayers. On Tatooine, it was said that the moon, in all its silence, held infinite wisdom. Since the beginning of life itself, the moons would watch over their respective worlds, quietly and dependably. At night, the moon rose to protect and guide all life, so Anakin prayed to it now. He prayed to the moon to protect him and help him, and to not abandon him now, when it seemed that all else had.

With an ugly crash, his door slammed open. Stomping and thudding, making the ground quake with his massive feet, Dask was one of those terrible monsters from the Tatooine folktales that always seemed to make children cry.

For awhile, Dask didn’t speak at all, and Anakin clamped his jaw so tightly shut that not even a breath escaped his clenched teeth.

Viciously, Dask threw the boxes that hid Anakin’s trembling figure to the side.

“P- _please,_ Master _,_ ” he submitted on his knees, pleading.

“You _little shit!”_ Dask swung a fist, but Anakin rolled to the side, narrowly missing the blow.

Dimly then, a thought occurred to him, in fact he didn’t have much time to think about it at all, it was more instinct and intuition, but he was going to run. This couldn’t be his end, it _wouldn’t be_ his end _._ Dask was _not_ going to stop him. Far away from this wretched hole, he was going to run and run and run.

The next punch landed harshly on his shoulder, but he quickly shifted away again and scrambled to his feet this time. His mind was overwhelmed with fright and his entire body was shaking so badly that he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to manage his own weight.

Finding his stability, Anakin ran for his dear, dear life now because he wasn’t going to die like this, _couldn’tdienotnownotyet,_ but his Master was right there behind him, pounding and thundering and growling, and he was oh _sososcared,_ but the door out of the apartment was right there, and if he could only get away, Anakin was sure it was the door to freedom.

“Get back here!” the Trandoshan roared, but Anakin didn’t listen, didn’t even glance back, he only ran now. Just as he was about to get to the door—to freedom—Dask mauled him and Anakin fell heavily to the floor, letting out a biting cry of pain.

“ _I hate you!”_ Anakin howled, thick tears falling down his cheeks. A slave could never _ever_ speak like that to his master, but that didn’t matter now, Anakin didn’t care. With every fiber of his being, he loathed the Trandoshan. Dask had made him suffer, he desecrated him, and in his chest, he left this blackened, aching, pit of depthless fear and hatred and loneliness. Anakin burned with abhorrence for it all, for his _master._ “I HATE YOU!” he shouted again, struggling and fighting beneath Dask’s hold. The body on him was heavy and vile and painful, and it was going to just keep pressing Anakin against the floor and rubbing and smashing him into the ground until he was nothing. In the haze of his utter panic and rage though, Anakin _felt_ something, similar to something he’d felt before. With a power he didn’t understand, he felt himself seizing Dask’s body, and even though his face was still being rubbed into the floor and his arms were pinned beneath his body, he felt himself pushing back. Pushing and _pushing_ back _,_ and then with a burst of unrestrained power, _throwing_ back _._ Dask flew against the wall with a forceful _thud,_ and a drawer crashed to the ground, a few beer bottles shattering as well. Still, Anakin could feel that grasp of power he held over Dask. As the Trandoshan slumped across the room, it was as if he could stretch out and touch him and make him hurt, but he didn’t, even if he wanted to. He wasn’t like that, he wasn’t like Dask, he only wanted to get away. 

So he ran. Too afraid to look back, he fled into the night. As his body yelled in pain, and his lungs became tight with exertion, he kept running until he was positive he was out of Dask’s reach. 

The district he came to rest in was seedy and grimy. Sleazy looking characters wandered the unkempt cement streets, and those unfortunate enough to be left homeless lay curled up in rags. The lights of a strip club sign flickered haphazardly, and by a dark alley corner, there appeared to be a drug deal going on. Fluorescent lights of rundown establishments illuminated the streets ominously, and Anakin had the distinct feeling that he shouldn’t be here. Yet, it was far better than anywhere near Dask.

Wiping tears off his dampened cheeks, he began to roam, sparing nervous glances at those who inhabited the district. Occasionally, some glimpsed warily in return, but most people kept to themselves.

Anxious, Anakin stiffly dug his hands into his pockets, searching the area, but for what, he did not know. He tried to not think about how Dask could find him and steal him back, or how Dask had the detonator to his slave chip. Dask could blow him up right now, if he wanted to, but there was nothing Anakin could do about it, so he tried to ignore the ugly and looming thought. 

A hand roughly grabbed Anakin’s injured shoulder, and he squirmed under the pressure before going deathly still. He would have shook in fright, but he was too petrified to move. _Dask had found him._

“Gimme all you got,” a rough, desperate voice growled from behind him. He whipped around now, coming to face a thin Twi’lek male with a scarred face. He pointed a knife at Anakin’s chest. “I _said,_ ” he began again before Anakin could respond, “ _gimme all you got._ Empty yer pockets, now,” he ordered.

Anakin should have been scared, but he only felt relieved that this man mugging him was not Dask. “I _got_ nothin’ t’give ya!” he snarled back with more confidence than he felt. 

“Give _it,_ or I kill’ya.”

“HOW CAN I GIVE YOU ANYTHING, IF I DON’T GOT ANYTHING!” he was shouting now, furiously pulling his pockets inside out to demonstrate that he, indeed, had nothing. “NOW LEAVE ME ALONE!” his fists clenched and his arms bashed violently against the air.

For whatever reason, the Twi’lek mugger listened, stalking back into the shadows as Anakin stormed off, desperate, exhausted, and angry. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to hug his mother and to fall asleep to her soft, lullabying voice. He tried to shove away those thoughts too—they only made him sick with longing—but it didn’t work.

As he trudged on, he caught sight of a holocomm booth. _Obi-Wan_ he thought instantly, quickening his steps as he approached the booth. He could comm Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan was a Jedi, so surely, he could help him. Fingers trembling again, he punched in Obi-Wan’s comm number, _295-3752._ He bit his lip as the comm rang and rang, suddenly remembering that it was very late, and Obi-Wan was likely asleep by now.

Moments later, a surprisingly chipper face answered the comm. “Anakin?” he asked, the faintest trace of confusion creeping onto his expression. Something about his smiling teal eyes and flowing accent made Anakin feel just the slightest bit better. He was despairing and forlorn, but the remote happiness he felt at seeing Obi-Wan was something, and it was important. “Anakin, what’s the matter?” that face creased with worry now and Anakin struggled to respond.

“I need help.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeh boii this took me forever to get around to. I completely lacked any modicum of writing inspiration.  
> I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. I kinda like it and I kinda don't. I tiredly proof read this just once, so there will probably be some issues and typos.  
> Obi-Wan is chipper at obscene hours of the night because he apparently doesn't need sleep and he probably drinks obsessive amounts of tea.  
> I hope I'm properly conveying Anakin's situation and his resulting thoughts and emotions. It's a heavy and sensitive subject matter to write and sometimes I worry that I'm not writing it in the appropriate manner.  
> Also, please follow me on my tumblr, [the-little-bay-that-could](http://the-little-bay-that-could.tumblr.com/)


	7. Help

**“** _What’s happened?”_ the Jedi-boy asked, and Anakin wasn’t quite sure how to respond. 

“I just—I’m in trouble. I need help. _Please,”_ he didn’t bother to try and hide the desperation and urgency he felt. He was far too tired for that.

Obi-Wan took what looked like a deep, anxious breath. “Okay… _okay,”_ he paused, collecting himself. “Are you hurt? Is someone trying to hurt you?” Anakin could only nod at that. “Where are you right now?”

“I-I don’t know? Somewhere by the Old Galactic Market. Uh, there’s a, uh, big strip club right here?” he glanced towards the club’s flashing lights, “it’s called _Wonderland.”_

It was awhile before Obi-Wan responded again, and Anakin couldn’t help but become irrationally worried that he just wouldn’t respond at all. “Okay,” he finally spoke, looking a bit lost. “I’m going to talk to my Master, alright? I am sure we can help you. We can come and get you.”

Anakin nodded shyly, a hint of relief dulling some of his fear. “Thank you,” he mumbled, staring numbly at the torn-canvas of his shoes. 

“Just stay there. Don’t move. I’ll be there.”

“Alright,” he breathed, nodded, and the holotransmission cut. 

Mind blank with exhaustion, Anakin stood there for some time, gazing lifelessly at the wall on which the holocomm booth was bolted. Then, he paced. Up and down the block, he took long, agitated steps. He paced and paced until his legs were too heavy to move, and only then did he sit. He slouched against the wall of a building, hugging his knees tightly to his chest. 

It was cold here, and the thin fabric of his clothing provided little warmth. He felt cold on the inside, too—as his fear started to wane, all that was left in its wake was this awful, dead feeling. Like a flower deprived of the sun and water, he wilted. His chin drooped into his chest and patiently he waited for Obi-Wan to save him from this terrible place.

 

* * *

  

Never-mind that it was 3 A.M. and Qui-Gon probably really wanted sleep after a tiring mission—this was _urgent._ As sorely tempted as Obi-Wan was to barge into Qui-Gon’s room, panting from his tiresome trek across their small living quarters, and screaming that they _have to save someone right now!_ that a boy’s life _depends_ upon their Jedi-heroics, he breathed calmly and tapped lightly on his Master’s door. 

No answer. Tap again, then.

Still, no answer. Knock, now. 

“What _is it_ padawan?” a voice groaned from the other side of the door. The voice sounded like the body would prefer to be buried beneath blankets, and not talking to a chipper, well-meaning padawan at hell-o’ clock in the morning.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Master, but this is important.”

“What can possibly be so important at this hour?” the voice sounded like the teeth wanted to bite the padawan’s head off. Obi-Wan took this as the signal to enter.

“It’s that boy, Anakin,” he glanced down at his Master, who seemed positively intent on burrowing himself beneath his blanket. “He just commed me, Master. He seems very distressed. Scared _._ I think someone is trying to hurt him. He needs our help, _now.”_

“Alright,” Qui-Gon sighed, gathering himself enough to transition from a prone position to an upright one. His long hair fell haphazardly over his face, and he tiredly dragged a hand through it. “Just give me five minutes.” Obi-Wan nodded and sprang out of the room to prepare himself.

It took Qui-Gon a dreadfully long _six_ minutes to emerge from his room, wrinkled robes thrown over a body that was struggling to not fall over. “Ready, Master?” Obi-Wan prodded. Even at this ungodly hour, he wore his robes with picturesque Jedi-perfection.

“Patience,” Qui-Gon sighed, rubbing his eyes with his index fingers. “I suppose I should inform the Council,” he considered, shrugged, then retracted that idea. “They’re most likely asleep. Never-mind.” Generally, Obi-Wan would have been horrified at such disrespect; he would have vehemently rejected such… _mutiny,_ but now the only indication of his perturbation was a pair of widened eyes. He was too focused on their rescue mission to properly observe all Jedi rules.

The Temple was dark as they snuck their way through the corridors and out into the hangar. The Temple guards did not seem particularly worried about their leaving, but Obi-Wan couldn’t help but feel as if he were on some covert, super-important mission (a mission not even the Council had been made aware of. Overactive imagination aside, Obi-Wan wholly knew this was only by the virtue of Qui-Gon’s blatant disregard for the Council). He was anxious, too. Right away, he wanted to get to Anakin, even though he knew this _impatience_ was offensive to Jedi ideals.

“You are worried about your new friend,” Qui-Gon observed as they made their way into a speeder. 

Obi-Wan paused, considering this statement far more meticulously than necessary. “Yes,” he admitted. The speeder started, and then wove it’s way into the forever-bustling Coruscant traffic.

“There is no shame in feeling that way.” Obi-Wan nodded, but struggled to find truth in the statement. Jedi weren’t supposed to get so worried over people they barely knew. “Do you know the location of this boy?”

He nodded again. “Anakin said he was in the Old Galactic Market. By a place called _Wonderland.”_

“The strip club?” Qui-Gon said with a snort. They began their descent into the underworld, and apparently Qui-Gon did not need to put their destination into the GPS.

The district they landed in was just as rugged and grimy as the place Obi-Wan had first met Anakin. The streets were sparsely populated at this hour, but criminal life was noticeable.

“He is near-by,” Qui-Gon spoke as they walked deeper into the district.

“How do you know?”

“I sense a disturbance in the Force. Similar to when we first met Anakin.”

“You can sense his presence?”

“I believe so, yes… His presence… It is incredibly unique,” he vaguely explained. Obi-Wan didn’t quite understand what he meant, but didn’t care to inquire any further either.

“Should we call for him?” the padawan worried, “what if he doesn’t recognize us? What if we don’t see him?”

“Ease your mind, young one. Do not call for him—we do not wish to attract attention. _Feel_ for him instead.”

“But what if-“

“Do not tire me with your self-doubts, Obi-Wan. You trust in the Force, but now you must trust in yourself as well. If only you search with your feelings and not your eyes, you will find what you are looking for.”

Reaching out with the Force, Obi-Wan pressed his eyes closed. He tried only to listen and to feel. _There is only the Force_ , the mantra repeated itself, as it always seemed to. _There is only the Force,_ he reminded himself, absorbing his surroundings. The Force felt tainted with despair, but also with anger and exhaustion and immorality. Some of these feelings belonged to Anakin, Obi-Wan figured, but their existence was also inherent to the reality of the underworld. Even so, amid the bleakness of this place, Obi-Wan sensed a presence that was distinctly bright. It was Anakin, he knew. He was so sure of it he could sprint to the boy now.

“I found him, Master,” he glanced up at Qui-Gon, looking determined. Qui-Gon tilted his head in assent, saying _lead the way._

 

* * *

 

_“_ Anakin?” The voice was too soft. It felt far off and not totally real. “ _Anakin?”_ Slowly now, Anakin dragged his head up. His eyes were blurry and he was so very tired. But there were two figures there, standing before him. One tall, the other small. To panic was Anakin’s instinctive reaction, but as the world came into focus, he saw Obi-Wan.

“Obi-Wan?” his eyes widened. His voice was hopeful, but also shocked and bewildered, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing was true. Like a desert nomad dying of thirst may see an oasis, but in reality, it is only a mirage. 

“Yeah, Anakin. It’s me. I came from you.”

“Obi-Wan,” he repeated, “it’s you. You came.” The notion that Obi-Wan cared enough to come was almost incomprehensible to Anakin, but he was immensely relieved either way. He felt so relieved he could cry. “I didn’t think you’d come.” Anakin remained curled around himself, pressed up against the wall, his eyes and cheeks wet with tears. “Thank you.”

“Of course I came.” Obi-Wan stretched a hand out to Anakin and helped pull him to his feet. Even standing, Anakin seemed to shrink into the smallest position possible. His body slouched, and his arms tightly hugged his chest. Tears, as light and delicate as he seemed now, continued to drizzle down his face.

“Hi Anakin,” an older voice spoke now. His tone was soft and yielding, as if approaching a frightened animal. “I’m Qui-Gon Jinn. We’ve met before.” The man dropped to one knee, so he met Anakin at eye-level. Anakin gave a small, stiff nod in response. He remembered him—he risked his life for whatever Jedi mission the man had. “We’re going to take you back to the Jedi Temple for the rest of the night, and then we’re going to figure out what to do from there, alright?”

Anakin nodded shyly. He felt so very small, and while he was relieved, there was still a sense of confusion and helplessness. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him. “I want my mom,” he said in a voice as small as he felt, but there was a hint of defiance to it.

“Your mother. Where is she?” 

“Tatooine.” 

“Alright,” Qui-Gon said slowly, unsurely. “We’ll see what we can do. First, I need to make a call.” He stood and shifted his attention towards Obi-Wan. “I suppose I should inform a member of the Council of this matter. I don’t imagine they would appreciate that I took it upon myself to bring a civilian child to the Temple.”

Qui-Gon trotted off to make a private call, and Anakin turned to Obi-Wan. “Thank you,” he repeated, because that’s all he could think of to say.

Obi-Wan smiled softly. “You’re injured,” he observed. Anakin looked tattered—not only in his clothes, but his body as well. He was bruised and bloody and swollen. His shirt covered the welts that angrily painted his back. A dull ache pervaded his entire being. “Is it bad?”

“S’okay,” he shrugged, but that hurt his shoulder—the injury Dask gave him was still too fresh. His voice was incredibly dull and he looked desolate and hollow and miserable. Obi-Wan didn’t seem to know what else to say, so they both remained silent until Qui-Gon returned.

“I have permission to bring Anakin to the Temple for the night,” the Jedi stated.

Obi-Wan looked shocked, but Anakin didn’t understand why. “Really?”

“I spoke with Master Yoda. He was not… _fond_ of the idea, but I can be incredibly persuasive,” he smirked.

“Master Yoda is awake at this time?”

“Do not expect me to explain the habits of the old master. I understand him less than you do.” Obi-Wan seemed to concede to this point. “Have you ever seen the Jedi Temple, Anakin?” Qui-Gon asked, placing a gentle hand on Anakin’s bony shoulder and steering him in the direction of the speeder.

Anakin tensed at the touch. He didn’t like being touched, he didn’t want to be touched, and he didn’t trust anyone but his mom to _ever_ touch him again. Qui-Gon seemed to notice, and lifted his hand. Anakin shook his head in response, _no._ He knew barely anything about the Jedi. They were mysterious, secluded. Under different circumstances, he would be curious to see the Temple. He would be excited. But now, all he really cared about was a bed that was comfortable and safe and far away from Dask. 

“The Temple is beautiful,” Obi-Wan offered, but Anakin couldn’t find the energy to care. Even as the speeder ascended from the underworld and the extravagance of the Coruscant skyline came into view, Anakin only bothered to momentarily glance at its brilliance. And all the speeders rushing nearby—some of them Anakin had previously only heard about, but never witnessed them fly in person. He should have been enthralled, he could have pondered their schematics and designs for hours on end, but now he only curled up and hid his head between his arms and knees. 

They arrived at the Temple, but Anakin wasn’t sure how long it took. He hadn’t been paying any attention. The Temple was impressive, he noticed. It was grand and looked wealthy, but his observations ended there. He shuffled behind Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan as they took a too-long walk through silent halls. The entire time, he stared at his torn-canvas shoes. 

Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s living quarters were far better than Dask’s. Their’s was plain and neat and Anakin wasn’t scared to enter. Qui-Gon didn’t lock him in a tiny, dirty room, but said he could sleep on the couch instead. Obi-Wan apologized for the couch being stiff, yet it was the most comfortable thing Anakin had ever slept on. They both said “if you need anything, just let us know,” but Anakin wasn’t really listening, and he wouldn’t have had the courage to ask for anything anyways.

“Sleep well,” Qui-Gon told him.

“Good night!” Obi-Wan said. Anakin didn’t respond, but instead stared blankly at the cushions on the couch. When Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan returned to their beds, and when Anakin finally felt safe enough, he laid down. He curled up tightly and clutched a pillow to his chest. Qui-Gon had given him a blanket that was especially soft, and Anakin bundled himself in it. When he went to sleep, he dreamed that the pillow he was hugging was his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! For awhile I'd been really unmotivated to write this. But things are finally getting better for lil Ani!!


	8. Jedi's Auction Block

The light shone too harshly through the window, seeming to burn his skin and assault his weary eyes. His body groaned and ached as he pushed himself into a sitting position. For a moment, he was shocked and confused to find himself not buried away in Dask’s hovel, but instead in a polished, minimalist, and unnaturally neat room. The place did not cry with danger, but instead felt exceedingly serene. So much so that it almost appeared artificial in its tranquility.

He saw the man he recognized as Qui-Gon Jinn. He sat on a circular, off-white cushion, his long legs criss-crossed and his eyes closed. Just like the Temple, he was exceedingly relaxed. It was curious to Anakin how anyone could be so calm. Especially on a planet like Coruscant. Coruscant did not allow for tranquility—it was all cement and chaos. Too much was always happening at once, and to shut it all out was an impossibly difficult task.

“Anakin,” the too-calm voice abruptly interrupted the silence of the Temple and the loud chatter of both Coruscant and Anakin’s mind. Anakin flinched back, bewildered at how Qui-Gon knew he was awake. The man’s eyes peaked from beneath his eyelids and he shifted his attention towards the boy. “Good morning. Or good afternoon, I should say. You slept for some time, but I figured you needed it.” 

Anakin blinked and stiffened on the couch slightly. He bowed his head into his chest, and his hands grasped at his knees with a sort of urgency. The calmness of the Temple did little to alleviate his fears (he was safe now, he tried to remind himself. The Jedi weren’t going to hurt him—they would help him, he struggled to convince himself. Dask couldn’t find him here. Dask couldn’t get him here. He was _okay_ ).

“Obi-Wan is in class now. I imagine he’ll be back soon.” Anakin only nodded. He didn’t feel like talking, and was tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix. “Are you hungry? I’ll make you something. We have a long day ahead of us,” Qui-Gon stood and ambled into the small kitchen. He poured oil onto a pan which sat on the stove, and then cracked two eggs over the pan. “I hope you don’t mind eggs,” he said with a glance towards Anakin and started making tea as the eggs cooked. Anakin remained stiff and silent on the couch, feeling very much out of place. 

“Eggs are ready,” the Jedi said only minutes later, and Anakin shuffled towards the circular table. The food smelled nice and like the mornings on Tatooine when his mom made him breakfast and greeted him with a smile. They never had much in the way of food, but his mom, through some magic, always made it smell and taste so good. Biting into the eggs, he ached for her, the sweet and savory flavors of her food, and the warmth of her smile. Tatooine was a miserable place, but Anakin was convinced she made the twin suns rise.

“Are you alright, Anakin?” a voice poked into his thoughts. Anakin dragged his eyes up from his eggs, his gaze met by a concerned Qui-Gon sitting across from him. He refocused on his food and shrugged. 

“Do you know what the Force is, Anakin?” He shook his head, _no._ “The Force is what gives a Jedi his power. It’s an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together.” He paused, looking at Anakin now, truly looking _into_ him. It made Anakin uncomfortable, he wanted to shrink back into himself. “The Force is very strong in you, and your presence in the Force is unique. We are going to see the Jedi Council today, and I believe they will feel that as well.”

Anakin’s eyes flickered from his food to Qui-Gon. He took small bites of the eggs and then anxiously and rhythmically tapped his fork against the plate. The fork and plate rung softly, and that was the only noise the boy made. 

He was confused about all this Force stuff and didn’t understand why he was so special because of it. He didn’t know what the Jedi Council was either, and unless they could save him and his mom, he didn’t particularly care to see them.

_I just want to go home_ he thought. Before this whole ordeal, Anakin fantasized about walking the halls of the Jedi Temple. In his dreams, he was a great Jedi hero, liberating the slaves, killing the masters. None of that mattered anymore, though. Nothing mattered but going home to his mom and burying himself in the safety and warmth of her arms. 

“Can you tell me why you’re in Coruscant? What’s happened to you?” Qui-Gon said softly. Vacantly, Anakin stared at his plate, painted yellow by the yolk of his half-eaten eggs. “Were you trafficked here?” the voice became even softer somehow, and Anakin flinched his response. Qui-Gon knowingly nodded his head, “Can you tell me who brought you here? Who’s been hurting you, what they’ve been doing to you?” 

Tears snuck out of Anakin’s grim eyes and fell silently down his face. He shook his head and his hand tensed around the fork. The soft ringing of fork against plate ceased, leaving Anakin mute. Qui-Gon seemed to understand the forced silence, “Alright, we don’t have to talk about it right now.” For that, Anakin was grateful. 

Hours later, Qui-Gon marched Anakin before the Jedi Council. Yet, it was not a proud march. It was a sullen and anxious one. Anakin’s fear was palpable, and the unyielding, probing eyes of the Council did little to alleviate his unease. Qui-Gon said the masters on the Council were wise and kind, but the slave boy did not believe him. In his nine years of life, in his nine years as a slave, Anakin never met a kind master. The masters of the Council were no exception. The way they stared upon him, it made Anakin feel as if he were not a human at all. Just a _thing_ on the auction block, displayed for all the masters to inspect, to decide if he was worth buying. But that was not the worst of it. Those cold, scrutinizing eyes looked _into_ him in a manner so invasive and terrifying he wanted to scream. It felt as if they raped his mind and soul, the tendrils of their own minds reaching at his deepest thoughts and fears. Thoughts that were not theirs to see in the first place.

Oh, how Anakin wanted to yell and cry and fight and kick, but he remained silent, stood still, like the _good little slave boy_ he was. And when the masters spoke, it was not to him at all, but to Qui-Gon.

“Great fear in him I sense. Yes, great fear and anger,” an ugly little green tree-stump of a man spoke. 

“Why have you brought this boy before us, Master Jinn? He is far too old to be a Jedi, and as Master Yoda said, he is full of fear, anger, and hatred,” said a man with a head shaped like a cone. 

“As you know, Anakin provided vital information to me and my padawan, helping us bring down a sect of the Black Sun. He did this, knowing full well it could get him injured or killed, and it nearly did,” Qui-Gon said gravely and surveyed the expressions of the Jedi masters. Their faces were as impassive as ever. “Obi-Wan and I rescued him last night. He was trafficked here from Tatooine, and I believe his slaver is involved with Black Sun. Of course he is angry and afraid. What else do you expect of a boy who has been stolen from his home planet, taken to a strange, distant land? He has been abused and nearly killed.”

“Perhaps the boy has been through a lot, but what are we to do of it, and  _why_ have you brought him before us?” a dark-skinned human named Mace Windu said, his voice so harsh Anakin flinched.

Qui-Gon sighed. “Surely, you all must feel it. Anakin is powerful with the Force. Untamed and raw as this power may be, there is something special about his presence in the Force. I know it, I can feel it. This is no ordinary boy. The Force has brought him to us and there are greater plans for him. Is it not our duty to do as the Force wills?”

“Powerful he may be, but dangerous too. Become a Jedi, we cannot. In this boy, darkness lurks. Should he stay, only danger will follow.”

“But Master Yoda, he is just a child.He is not dangerous, just traumatized.”

“And what do you propose we do?” Master Windu asked. “The boy is dangerous, and we cannot take in every traumatized, disadvantaged child we come across. The Jedi have bigger concerns than a single slave boy.”

“So you want me to send him back to Tatooine, so he can be sold back into slavery?”

“I don’t care what you do with him, but he doesn’t belong in the Temple.”

Hot, fire-like pain and anger boiled Anakin’s blood and coursed through his veins. They spoke of him with contempt, disregarding his feelings and personhood. Once again, he was a piece of property on the auction block, meant to be bought and sold. 

“Surely, you can feel it now Qui-Gon. The child is ripe with anger and hatred,” the cone-headed Jedi said, probing Anakin’s mind. “If he is trained, darkness will consume him. He will become a weapon of the Dark Side.”

As the Jedi invaded his mind, Anakin felt his skin crawl and his blood burn. Anakin’s body never truly belonged to him—it belonged to his masters, who could manipulate and abuse it whatever way they deemed fit. It was a cruel reality Anakin learned to cope with, but his mind?His mind belonged to _him._ Who was this damned Jedi, to take that from him? To touch and violate the only part of Anakin that was ever actually free?

In a rush of courage Anakin never knew he possessed, he snarled “Get _out_ of my head.” His voice was as feral as the savage beasts that roamed Tatooine, his face tensed in anger and defiance, his small, bruised hands curled into fists. With a power unseen, Anakin forced the Jedi out of his head. The Force tendrils invading Anakin’s mind snapped, and with it broke Ki-Adi-Mundi’s hold on Anakin’s mind. In shock and pain, the Jedi master rubbed his long forehead. 

“Is that evidence enough for you, Master Jinn?” Mace Windu snapped, “he’s dangerous.”

Qui-Gon gave Windu a long, hard stare before wordlessly striding out of the council chambers. Eager to leave, Anakin fled after him, running to keep up with Qui-Gon’s long steps. And when those formidable doors shut behind them, the boy breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Still, he was angry, frustrated, hurt, and scared. The mess of emotions caused such a violent racket in his mind that Anakin couldn’t do anything but cry. Foolishly, he thought the Jedi were going to help him, but they treated him with nothing but contempt and derision. Oh, what a stupid boy he had been, revering the Jedi as some great and moral force for good in this galaxy. Qui-Gon was decent, but the rest of them seemed as rotten as anything else in this universe. Anakin was just some pathetic slave boy to them, and that’s all he was ever going to be, wasn’t it? A slave. A piece of property to be bought, sold, and thrown away at the whims of more powerful men.

“What’s gonna happen to me?” he asked in a tiny voice, unable to meet Qui-Gon’s eyes. Tears pattered silently down cheeks, which were taunt with malnourishment.

Qui-Gon looked at the boy sympathetically, “What do you want?” He lowered himself on a nearby bench and gestured for Anakin to join him.

“I want my mom.”

“Do you want to return to Tatooine?”

Anakin looked at the Jedi master with scared, pleading eyes. “I - I just want my mom, but if I go home, I’ll just be sold back into slavery. Can you bring my mom here, _please?”_

The Jedi sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

“Why do the Jedi hate me? Are they gonna throw me out onto the street?” 

“I won’t let them. And they don’t hate you, Anakin. They’re just afraid. Your presence in the Force is powerful, but you’re untrained. This unnerves them. For all they preach about how dangerous fear is, they have a lot of fears of their own.”

“I don’t get it. I’ve never hurt anyone, I don’t want to hurt anyone. But they think I’m dangerous and bad.”

“Jedi begin training at a very young age — when they’re just four, five years old. Younglings are taught to master their emotions, to not give way to fear, anger, and hatred, lest they be tempted by the Dark Side. As young as you may be, you are old to begin Jedi training. And I imagine you have been through a great deal of pain and violence and hardship. Such hardship combined with a strong connection to the Force may make you more susceptible to the darkness. But you are just a child, the emotions you feel are natural.”

Anakin wiped the tears from his eyes, though more threatened to spill over. “I think they’re just rotten,” he said definitively and stubbornly, and Qui-Gon could do nothing but smile sadly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finally decided/felt inspired to update this thing, after forever. Hopefully I can stick with it.


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